Once Again Complete
by Quincetale
Summary: It's been two years since the fabled disaster of the Opera Populaire. After returning from a year-long commission in the navy, Raoul arranges an extended holiday in London to reinvigorate his marriage. Soon tragedy strikes and Christine finds herself in the arms of the last person she'd expect, a man she thought long dead. Now, a mysterious stranger threatens to tear them apart...
1. An Old Woman

**So, a brief note before I begin the story... This is my first attempt at writing a fan-fiction, I'm still learning the formatting and whatnot so please be patient with me!**

 **This will be another Erik/Christine story based on the characters from the 2004 movie (mainly because it left me feeling SO unfulfilled) and therefore you can imagine them to resemble their film counterparts. There are also elements of back story incorporated from both the Leroux and Kay novels.**

 **Yes yes, the concept behind this story is not new and you have probably read something similar before, but I promise the writing isn't shabby and there are definitely some original parts. A lot of my inspiration to write this came from reading the story,** ** _All Paths Lead to You_** **, by pegasus-fics.**

 **And, of course, I do not own any characters and all peerage titles in no way resemble their actual holders. Without further ado, enjoy!**

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The old woman stared at her reflection for what felt like hours. The mirror was beautifully ornate, itself a unique piece, the wood was painted and decorated with long scrolling vines, gilded leaves, and small roses; and at an outside glance, the elderly woman seemed to suit the mirror and vanity perfectly, the handsomeness of her face showed what a great beauty she had been in her youth.

Her father had designed and built it for her when she was a little girl no taller than his knee. She knew he was a famous architect but she remembered being astounded when she saw that he had worked the wood himself. It was no wonder her parents had been a smart match, her father had almost divine hands, creating such monumental elegance and her mother was herself a great beauty; when she was but a child she often considered her parents some sort of angels.

Recently she had wondered if her father's indulgence and her mother's pride had spoiled her past human decency, _how else could she explain what she had done in her youth to her own flesh and blood?_

She sighed as she beheld her reflection, but any thoughts she had were promptly scattered as her maid rushed into the bedroom. The young woman had obviously not expected her employer to be awake for she hurriedly apologized. "Madame, please forgive me! I hadn't expected you would rise so early! I've not even heated your water…" the girl blurted out.

The older woman eyed the girl for a moment, who was doing her best to look contrite, "Do not fret over it, Mathilde! I have some important engagements this afternoon, so if you would please see to it that I am dressed and inform, Mrs. Thatch, to send up my breakfast." The young girl nodded quickly and rang the bell connecting to the kitchens, she then proceeded to ready her mistress for the day.

The elderly woman ate a small amount of breakfast: some grapes, fresh pastries, and kippers. After a considerable time spent in London, she had decided to hire an English cook, a decision that earned her more than a few derisive snorts among those who mattered in the county. The hostility between the English and French was no secret, especially in the country. Most of her peers sported a hearty distrust for all things English, especially the food. _And why shouldn't I enjoy their food? I am half-English after all._

However, at her age she cared not what gossip surrounded her, for no amount of dirty looks and snooty whispering could match the faraway time in her past when simple hushed whispers had escalated into ugly violence. Gossip was one of the things that irreparably damaged her family life _forever..._

After she had finished her breakfast she had her butler summon the carriage. It was a beautiful day, and although it was the height of spring and the fields leading away from her manor had become a swirling ocean of brilliant color, so lost was the woman in her own tempest of thought, that she hardly noticed. _What if this is the lead that reunites us? Will we be able to start anew? Would he even see me?_ In what seemed to her like no time at all the carriage pulled up in front of the simple, provincial police station.

When she arrived, one of the senior officers was waiting on the steps and he met her with enthusiasm. This poor old woman had been coming to the station ever since he began his career, nearly twenty years ago. Each time she had shown up and the trail had turned cold, each time he watched her leave the station dejectedly, he felt a stab of pity in his heart. And each time he observed the same situation unfold, he prayed that she would one day find her long-lost son, however unlikely it was to come true.

He had seen all of the private investigators that had come and gone, all of them ultimately failing in their quest. Ten years ago she had hired Benoit Poincare, a relatively young investigator who was reputed to be able to find anybody, no matter what lengths they had taken to avoid being discovered. He was immensely touched by her motherly devotion to a child that was more than likely long since deceased. _If anybody can find that boy of hers it's Poincare, he just needs a little more time..._

She followed him through the busy work area, all of the police pausing to address her sympathetically. They were all just as familiar with her story as he was. At last he ushered her into a small office in the back of the building where a short, balding man sat behind a desk. The man at once jumped out of his seat to greet her warmly, somehow managing to avoid knocking anything over.

The space he occupied was incredibly cramped. It was formerly a storage closet but around five years ago, the chief of the station had allowed Poincare to set up a makeshift office so the old woman did not have to travel into Paris to meet him. As it was the desk and chairs had barely fit in the room, but now boxes filled with files and stacked with papers—the result of years of searching and pursuing tip after tip—made it so that even a child would scarcely be able to walk through without unleashing a cascade.

"Ah, Madame Leroux, what a pleasure to see you once again!" he said, beaming. The woman said nothing but instead studied the man's face, the gentle creases around his eyes from laughing too much, the ruddiness of his cheeks, the twinkle in his eye; he looked to her like a child's favorite uncle instead of one of the foremost private investigators in France.

"Yes, yes, it is a pleasure to see you again as well, Benoit… I hope you have something worth an old woman's time." she stated, adding a dismissive wave of her hand. Seeing that his client wanted to solely talk business, he began explaining his reasons for requesting the meeting.

"Ah, yes, well. I know we have had our share of false tips and unreliable leads over the years, but this time I think I might have found something very promising, Madame. Very promising, indeed." She looked at him impatiently, "Well, go on then, Benoit, how long do you intend to keep me in suspense?"

Inspector Benoit Poincare sat back in his chair and looked at woman sitting before him, after all these years and tragedies, Madeleine Leroux still retained her beauty and haughtiness. He regarded her kindly, she had hardly mellowed with age like some women.

"I have heard reports from London, reports of a very mysterious composer. They say he only ever leaves his home at night to deliver his compositions to his symphony hall and that few have ever laid eyes on the man…" Poincare trailed off dramatically as annoyance flashed in Madeleine's steel grey eyes. "An eccentric composer is hardly a novel phenomenon. Those artistic types always have their quirks, each one stranger than the next. How can you be sure this information is of any relevance to the job I hired you for over ten years ago?"

Poincare froze as the thought struck him, this was the only case he had not closed in under a year, his excellent record was the primary reason he had been recruited for the job, but so far he had been no closer to solving the mystery than the moment he was hired. In truth, it vexed him to no end and in the years he had turned up many a lead he thought promising, only for the trail to end cold. But this woman's missing son had to be at the ends of the earth, Poincare was now convinced the boy would never be found, it was as if he had fallen off the earth and become a ghost.

At the last thought, he suppressed a chuckle, imagine if the boy really was some sort of ghost, some sort of phantom... _No, he is probably long dead or relocated to a remote colony to start a new life away from his traumatizing past._

"Yes, I realize your concern, Madame, and these details are not what interested me. It is said that this particular composer also designed the symphony hall in question and they even say that during construction he repainted part of the ceiling fresco himself because he was unsatisfied with the work of the painters. And then there is the matter of his musical works, apparently his pieces are amazing to behold, sheer genius, unlike anything that has been heard. Finally, I managed to locate one of the few who has met him and the man swears that this composer hides half of his face in shadow, a result of a household fire during his childhood, which killed his parents." He smiled after adding this last bit, allowing himself to relish in his own cleverness at having found such a witness. Poincare did not need to ask Madeleine's opinion on the information, for her answer was etched in every wrinkle of her aged face.

As their eyes met, the two wordlessly realized after ten long years of fruitless searching, their job was completed. Despite the relief that now possessed her face and the grey eyes that acted as a dam for over twenty years of emotion, she managed only to curtly nod at him and say, "We must leave at once, Benoit."


	2. A Proposal

**Okay, so that's one chapter out of the way! I have tried to edit everything I post to death so that it makes for a more pleasurable read, nobody likes a story rife with grammatical and spelling errors. I will probably be churning out the chapters pretty quickly, I already have over 13,000 words written. I am a fast writer and don't like to drag things out.**

 **As you learned from the first chapter, Erik's mother is very much alive and searching for the son she drove away, but we won't know her reasons until much later. Until the flow of the story is established, the chapters will sort of jump around to focus on different characters. I hope it isn't too confusing, though.**

 **In this chapter we get our first glimpse of Christine since the incident of the Opera Populaire, Raoul will also feature pretty heavily. That also brings me to another point... I've noticed in a lot of stories I have read, Raoul is portrayed as the bad guy. I don't agree with that and I think he does love and care for Christine a great deal, but he's still too young to really appreciate his feelings with any depth. This is what led me to depict Raoul as the same all-around cute, lovable guy he is in the movie.**

 **As for Erik and Christine, there is plenty of that to come, I promise. In the meantime, enjoy this next chapter and, as always, I do not own anything. Also... shameless Downton Abbey plug, sorry! :D**

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Paris - Late Spring, 1873

The young woman sat in an ornate silk chair at the edge of the parlor, to an outside observer she seemed focused on her needlepoint. The other woman in the room sat away from her on the sofas and chaise longues; they were perched at the edge of their seats tittering loudly to one another and clutching their needlework. She did her best not to look up at them, she already knew they were gossiping about her. It seemed to be their favorite pastime.

The solitary woman pretended to be engrossed in the task at hand, forcing a look of concentration to mask her relief that her husband had entered the room. The youthful man strode up to his young wife and smiled brightly, "Making a keepsake for our future child, darling?"

Christine looked up at her husband, warmth emanating from her large brown eyes. "I ordered my carriage, I want to take you someplace special for supper. I have something to tell you, my dear. Two minutes, Little Lotte." said Raoul de Chagny with a small smirk, echoing back to the night when they were first reunited at the Opera Populaire. Though only two years had passed, it felt like an eternity to her.

In truth, Christine was more than happy to leave the parlor full of her giggling peers. When she and Raoul had once again found each other, she had been elated. He was the first man she had ever wanted to marry and as a little girl she would fantasize about one day being his wife. When Madame Giry had taken her to live in the ballet dormitories, she confided all of this to her best friend, Meg Giry. The two of them had spent endless hours under the covers giggling and Meg had even dubbed Raoul, "Christine's Prince." Now that was all behind them and Christine was living her girlhood dream married to a handsome, young Vicomte; _how many girls would envy her fortune?_

And back in the early days of her and Raoul's fledgling romance, everything had truly seemed a fairy-tale. However, after the marriage, Christine was dealt the harsh sting of reality; while Raoul was enamored of her, his family was less so, and his friends even less than that, were it possible. The very first month of their marriage, one of Raoul's former admirers had started a rumor that Christine had been mistress to the infamous Phantom of the Opera and had slept with the new owners to get the lead role in Chalumeau's, _Hannibal_. The girl and her mother had hoped that she would one day become the Vicomtesse de Chagny and were livid that she had been passed over for some loose theatre persona who was little better than a common whore.

The worst of these encounters with Raoul's friends came at a Salon in 1871, right after she and Raoul had returned from their honeymoon. Christine was thoroughly surprised when he had accepted the invitation of the Duc de Praslin; her husband had expressed no interest in the arts since the events of the Opera, in fact it seemed he held nothing but contempt for them in the wake of that terrible night.

However, the Duc was a dear friend of the Comte de Chagny so Raoul had seen as a familial obligation to attend and retain the ancient ties of his family, after all he would be Comte de Chagny one day. They had arrived to the Salon without incident and shortly afterwards, her husband had excused himself to discuss business with the other gentlemen, leaving Christine alone to admire the artwork.

It was not until she arrived in front of an exquisitely beautiful picture of an odalisque that she heard the approach of the Duc's ghastly daughter, Emmeline. With a wicked laugh, the latter had loudly announced that perhaps ' _the performer's_ ' fascination with the painting was brought about by her familiarity with harems and her longing desire to return to her old profession. Christine spent the rest of the evening sobbing, dismissing Raoul's concern by disguising it as a bout of hysteria. She knew he would not question this as, like most men, women's affairs made him uncomfortable.

Of course, nobody spoke ill of her when Raoul was around and he could not understand why Christine was not attending ladies events or calling on other members of the nobility. The carriage ride back to the de Chagny estate was quiet. "Is there something the matter, my Christine?" he asked with concern, placing his hand on her knee. She squeezed her husband's hand and looked into his handsome young face, "No, my love, all is well. I am afraid you caught me lost in my thoughts."

Raoul smiled lovingly at his beautiful young wife. But each time he looked into her eyes, he could not shake the feeling that Christine had changed in his absence. A few months after the couple had returned from their honeymoon and the horrible Salon, Raoul had accepted a navy commission at the behest of his father, who had still not forgiven his son for sullying their family's name in that dreaded opera fiasco.

The Comte had an ulterior motive for separating the young lovers, he had hoped against hope that being away from the young diva would bring his misguided son to his senses about choosing such a scandalous bride. Though Raoul's relatives were courteous towards his new wife, they could not completely hide their disapproval. A fact which was reflected in the mannerisms of their staff, who often did not bother to disguise their contempt for Christine.

Her former profession was not what irked his family, although it was far from ideal, the young woman was still very much a child and appeared sweet and virtuous, unlike so many other dancers and divas. _No, the part his father could not forgive was her involvement with the murderous lunatic that was responsible for the burning of the opera house._ She had endangered his son and tied up his good name in the whole sordid affair. His father would never forget that; to the Comte that fact was far more unforgivable than if she had been just as promiscuous as stage performers were rumored to be.

When the carriage at last arrived at the beautiful manor, Christine hurried up the stairs to get changed. She could not help but feel a surge of curiosity at the news Raoul had for her. Knowing him it was probably another gift for her, but nevertheless she remained hopeful that it was something far more exciting, something to take her mind off the fateful night that had changed her whole life… Though it had been just over two years, the memory was still freshly seared into her mind. Even her dreams offered no recess, every time she closed her eyes she was haunted by that night.

Frequently she would wake with a start, drenched in sweat and feeling incredibly faint. Raoul had noted this with overwhelming concern. He assumed she was still gripped by the memories of that masked maniac who tried to kidnap her and force her to be his bride. No doubt, so that he could do all manner of perverse and unspeakable things with her body; _who knew what sort of twisted and damnable pleasures that beast harbored in his dark mind._

He was reminded of the ancient myths he had learnt as a boy, wherein the hideous monster always desired the beautiful maiden. Each time his wife would awaken from another nightmare, Raoul would silently curse the memory of that gargoyle and hold Christine against him until sleep again took her. It was not customary for couples in their position to share a bed, but her nightmares only grew worse with his absence and eventually he decided she needed him there with her.

Christine felt incredibly guilty for waking Raoul in this manner, especially when she saw the dark circles that had begun to emerge under his eyes. It was true that she often relived that night in the privacy of her dreams, but not for the reasons her husband assumed. _It wasn't his disfigured face that stayed with her, nor was it his rage and willingness to kill..._ In truth her dreams were invaded time and time again by the kiss they had shared; the kiss originally intended out of pity, to show the human inside the creature that he too deserved compassion. However the moment their lips touched, something inside her was awakened. _Something flaming, all-consuming, something she had not ever felt before or since then…_

From that point on, it seemed to replay constantly in her mind; her nightmare had not been her abduction by the masked man, but instead being forced to leave him. Thousands of times she revisited the moment she came to say good-bye, when she found him sitting in front of that music box, his face streaked with tears. She remembered the pain in those clear blue eyes, the burning sensation when their hands brushed as she gave him her ring, and most of all she was tormented by the way he echoed Raoul's words from the rooftop, " _Christine, I love you._ " Despite all of her betrayals, he still loved her.

It later dawned on her that he must have heard the rooftop exchange between her and Raoul following, _Il Muto_. This realization racked her with guilt and self-loathing. _No wonder he had descended into madness; the blame rested completely on her._ Christine had allowed stupid fear to twist her image of him and in doing so, she had betrayed her Angel, _her mentor._

She wished as hard as she might that she could somehow apologize to him but she knew there was no hope of that. When she learnt of his death from the papers, a pit opened up in her chest. Although she did not know what it meant, two years later that same pit had expanded and presently threatened to engulf her.

She was so preoccupied with her musings that she hadn't noticed when her maid had finished fixing her hair and lacing her evening gown. Christine joined her husband in their carriage and it set off. When they arrived at their destination, Christine was stunned. Raoul had taken her to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Paris, Café Anglais; being the Vicomte de Chagny certainly opened a lot of doors. They were shown to their private room and upon being seated, Raoul wasted no time in delivering his news.

A grin illuminated his boyish features as he addressed his wife, "Christine, I wanted to take you someplace special to celebrate our second year of marriage…" A tiny frown formed on her lovely face, she had completely forgotten. _What a terrible wife she was!_ But Raoul was so excited that he seemed not to notice. "I know that it hasn't been easy for you since that cursed devil abducted you, I know his evil still possesses you. I blame myself for not being there for you the past year and a half, but I could not very well refuse my father's commission. Now that I've returned for good, I swear to do my very best to recapture lost time and once again bring you back into the light. That is why I've decided that we will take an extended holiday in London, perhaps your soul can heal once it is away from a place that has been tainted by his black mark. I have spoken with my father and all my affairs are in order, we shall be staying in the summer home of one of my father's dear friends, the Earl of Grantham. He has given us permission to stay as long as we want. Of course, I will occasionally be required to return to Paris on business, but you needn't come with me. So what do you think, my beloved?"

Christine smiled weakly, Raoul was everything she could have hoped for and his compassion seemingly had no end.

In a fortnight, she and Raoul had arrived at the port of Dunkirk, where they would soon board a boat and begin their journey. Wanting his wife to have a wealth of experiences, he had planned to land in Scotland and travel through the countryside, staying with various family friends and eventually making their way into London.

When the steamer at last cast her lines and the coast became a distant blur on the horizon, Christine felt the pit in her chest deepen painfully. She knew the man that had once been her Angel of Music was long dead, having met his end at the hands of the angry mob, yet she only felt heartbreak at leaving the city that had been the site of so many painful memories.

The swirling waves drew her into memories of how frightened she had been when she was brought to the ballet dormitories, having just lost her father. Her Angel had come to her then and comforted her, gradually made her whole again; he had been a selfless companion and encouraged her voice, inspired her to achieve things she never thought possible. _And how she repaid him!_ She was shaken out of her recollections by the sudden warmth of Raoul's body as he embraced her from behind, "Soon we will be in a new place, Little Lotte. Soon we can become whole as we once were." Christine said nothing, instead letting his promising words soothe her.


	3. The Holiday

**Alright, so when I was writing the last chapter I didn't realize it was almost 6,000 words! The first one was around 1,300 and I figured that was a HUGE gap, so I decided to split the last chapter into two parts. Fortunately, there's a break that divides the text neatly to around 2,500 words per piece.**

 **I deleted chapter 2 but I re-posted the new split chapters and I am posting a new one as well. This text is exactly the same as before, just split up. Sorry for the late realization!**

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Christine barely had a moment alone with her thoughts over the next three weeks, she and Raoul had already seen and done so much and tomorrow they would be arriving at their final destination: London. She had mixed emotions about this, she was not yet comfortable with the English language and she was apprehensive at being in a strange place for so long. Nevertheless, she fell into a light, fitful sleep. She dreamt she was back at the masquerade two years ago. As if on cue, her Angel of Music showed up clad in his dramatic red attire. As he approached her, his azure eyes brimmed with untold passion and she sucked in a small breath as he dipped her low and pulled her into a deep kiss. She wished to be lost in this dream forever until she was stirred out of sleep by Raoul throwing open the curtains.

"Wake up my dear, we are soon leaving for London." he said, regarding her sleepy eyes with a chuckle.

Within the hour, the couple was in the carriage well on the road to London and whatever dreams Raoul believed were located there. For Christine the ride went by quickly, she simply could not get her dream from the previous night out of her mind. She absentmindedly put her hands to her lips, just reliving the kiss over and over had made her feel faint. So lost in her fantasies was she that she did not realize when the carriage had stopped in front of a rather large townhouse perched elegantly on the street corner.

They were greeted by the butler, Dawson, and the head maid, Mrs. Percival, at the door. The cheery duo wasted no time supervising the unloading of the carriage, running through the schedules, and giving them the tour of the house. Raoul had excused himself after the tour to conduct business in London. But she continued to familiarize herself with the house and staff until it was almost time to change for supper.

Christine decided to take a bath to scrub off what seemed like an eternity spent traveling. She had her maid add some rose petals and lavender oil to the water to scent it. As she sank slowly into the elegant claw-foot tub she wished she could spend the entire evening in it. Earlier that afternoon, Raoul had gone out and returned a short while later to announce that they would be dining with some of his friends in an exclusive London hotel.

Her wish abruptly halted half an hour later when her maid came back to help her dry off and dress. Christine had picked a pretty dress of plum silk adorned with lace. She hoped Raoul would find her choice acceptable for meeting his friends, but did not care in the least what they might think of her. Over the past two years she had experienced more than enough rudeness at the hand of his so-called 'friends'. They made no effort to hide their lowly opinion of her.

When she had come down the stairs, Raoul had been pleasantly stunned with how beautiful she looked. The dress fit her perfectly and the rich plum color offered a pleasing contrast to the milky-white of her skin. He smiled at her heavenly appearance as he helped her into the carriage. _What had he done to deserve such a perfect wife?_

They came to a stop in front of someplace called the Hotel Café Royal, the entire trip had taken less than ten minutes. Christine felt a wave of sickness roiling deep in her stomach. She felt detached from her body as Raoul gently steered her through the dining area to a private room, just as he had done in Paris when he first told her about their holiday; only coming to her senses when she first caught sight of his friends approaching. Christine clenched her teeth and braced herself for the terrible encounter to come, at first glance these people appeared to be no different from the countless other nobles she had met in France.

In no time the pair had reached the table and the first thing she noticed was how young they looked. The boy could not be more than eighteen, the awkwardness of adolescence had not completely left him, for he was tall and gangly. He had an untidy mop of loose blonde curls, large blue eyes, and the first hints of a mustache resting atop his lip. He might one day mature into a handsome man but for the moment he was scarcely more than a boy. The girl looked a couple of years younger, but had already blossomed into quite a beauty. Her loose, golden curls were swept up in an elaborate updo. She was small but her stately royal blue gown revealed that her body had already transitioned into womanhood. Her face was the color of cream, with full lips, a pointy chin, and the same large blue eyes as the boy. Raoul stood up enthusiastically and Christine followed suit timidly. "May I present William Harland, 6th Baron Suffield and his sister, the Honorable Miss Annabelle Harland." he announced with a flourish.

"William, Annabelle... this is my lovely wife, Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny." Once they had been introduced, the boy sheepishly smiled and kissed the back of her hand. The girl curtsied elegantly but Christine could see what she swore was nervousness in her movements. At last they all took their seats at the table and a long silence followed.

"William, has all been well since the death of your father?" Raoul asked sympathetically while sipping on his wine. William paused to glance at his sister, who was looking down at the table studying the place setting. "Uh, yes, well the death taxes have hit the estate quite hard but I am exploring new farming techniques that can increase our efficiency... and there's the matter of Annabelle's coming out next week." he replied, trying his best to sound more mature.

"It doesn't feel right to engage in all that frivolity so soon after papa's death. I could care less about carrying my train and curtsying to The Queen. Besides, Aunt Blanche is downright horrid." said Annabelle quietly. William grabbed his sister's hand and stroked it, speaking to her reassuringly, "Annabelle, you know that father would have wanted you to continue on the path he set you on... he prepared you to be brought out this year and I am doing my best to honor his requests." She nodded and looked at her lap, her eyes brimming with tears.

Once William and Raoul had become engrossed in conversation, Christine turned to the younger girl, "You know, I too lost my father when I was only seven." The latter immediately looked up and Christine smiled gingerly at her, "I remember how hard it was at first but gradually I learned how to live again through music..." Annabelle returned her smile, "I love music! _But I have not played since papa.._. Harp or piano? Which do you play, I mean?" she asked eagerly, clearly excited to have found a kindred spirit. "Oh, I don't play so much, I mostly sang..." Annabelle did not seem to notice that Christine had used past tense, "That is marvellous! We must arrange a duet sometime. William recently became a patron of a new concert hall and we should absolutely attend a symphony together."

Christine and Annabelle talked throughout supper. She had such an enjoyable time getting to know the young siblings and was extremely relieved to find that they were nothing like Raoul's friends back in France. To her surprise, she was sad the evening had come to an end. She hoped that she and Raoul would spend more time in the company of the duo during their stay. Christine was even greatly looking forward to Annabelle's debutante ball the following week. As the couple saw William and Annabelle off, Raoul, who was also jovial from good wine and conversation, proposed they walk back to the residence.

Shortly after they had set off, Christine began to feel uneasy; there was something about the night… Maybe it was the fog, the unusual chill in the air, or that they were in a strange place. _Yes, it was just the unfamiliarity of the city that had made her so fidgety._ Raoul had be insistent on walking back to the townhouse after supper, laughing heartily when Christine had expressed her concern. "What's the matter, Little Lotte? Afraid of goblins or shadows in the night? Haven't I proven that I can protect you?" She smiled in return, she did not want to start an argument, especially when her husband was in such high spirits.

Now as they wound their way through the deserted streets, their only company the gentle glow of the gas lamps, the feeling returned to Christine and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand. She felt Raoul pull her towards the open gates of a little park and squeezed his hand in silent protest. "Not afraid of the dark, are you darling?" Raoul teased, flashing her a smile.

Christine sighed and followed him, at least the park was small and well-lit. "I think we will really enjoy this holiday, Christine. And maybe it will be the inspiration we need to start a little family of our own." She knew this discussion would happen sooner or later, but she had hoped to wait. It just didn't feel right to start a family so soon after he had returned from the service. She wanted to first focus on regaining the affection she had once held for him.

She was stirred from her thoughts when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. _Was that a flash of movement?_ She could swear she heard deep breathing off to her right, but decided that it was the wind, after all Raoul had not noticed anything. _These are just things the mind conjures up when it is frightened; you are quite alone._

They walked a little farther down the narrow path when that disquieting feeling hit Christine once again. Before she had time to speak, three shadows materialized out of the darkness. "Well, well, well... what 'ave we 'ere, boys?" one of them sneered. "Looks like a nice young couple out for a stroll…" came the reply. "Dearie me, what a nice treasure that one is…" the third voice added.

"Who is there? Show yourself at once!" Raoul commanded. "Why would we do that? Then 'ow can we 'ave any fun?" One of the voices jeered. "Away with you brigands! You would not dare to harm the Vicomte de Chagny and his wife!" Raoul echoed in an imitation of his father's authoritative voice. It did not have the same effect. The three men only laughed maliciously. "What in bleedin' 'ell is a vickomtey?" one of them asked. "Bugger me, I ain't know but it prolly means 'is kicksies full of brass." replied the voice of what Christine was assumed was the leader.

"Show yourselves, cowards!" Raoul roared into the night. One of the men only chuckled and stepped into the glow of the lamp. Christine gasped. He was poorly dressed but rather large and burly, the light glinted off his oily black hair. He smiled showing foul greying teeth. But his eyes were the most shocking thing about his appearance, cold, black, and devoid of any mercy. He was holding a revolver pointed directly at Raoul's chest. His companions emerged from the shadows after their leader, but Christine did not see them. She felt a pair of rough hands grab ahold of her from behind. Her struggle only seemed to further entice the disgusting men, prompting them to say the most revolting and salacious things about her.

 _How dare these filthy bastards speak about his wife in such a way!_ In his rage, Raoul acted before thinking; he lunged at the leader and grabbed the pistol. "Run, Christine!" he screamed as he wrestled the much larger man. Without thinking, she tore from the spot, sobbing, her legs obediently carrying her with a speed she didn't know she possessed. She looked back briefly and was relieved that could no longer see or hear those awful men. That's when she heard a devastating sound: a gunshot ringing out into the cold night air. She froze on the spot, unable to will herself to move any more, all of her senses utterly deserting her in her anguish. Christine did not hear the approaching footsteps or smell the repellent odor as one of the criminals crept up on her, she only felt the keen pain as she was slammed against a tree. The same rough hands from earlier pinned her arms behind her back.

Christine flailed and furiously kicked backwards trying in vain to get free. "You's a wild little fox ain't ya? I ain't never 'ad a bit o posh 'fore…" he taunted her. She could feel his putrid breath on her neck and thought she might vomit from the stench. He tore at her dress with his free hand and with a loud ripping noise, split it down the back; she felt the cool night air against her skin. The man groped at her nearly exposed breasts through the thin fabric of her corset cover and chemise. Christine stomped as hard as she could on his foot, but he only tightened his grip and slammed her head into the trunk of the tree. Soon an intoxicating peacefulness gently seeped throughout her body. There was something warm and sticky running down the side of her face and she felt incredibly drowsy. She barely registered the breeze as he lifted her dress or his calloused hands stroking her thighs. And she certainly did not hear the second set of footsteps, the thud, or the man's scream as he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

Slowly she was aware that she no longer in danger, she was warmer and must have been wrapped in something. Christine felt herself softly being lifted off the ground. She briefly glanced up at her rescuer and was met by a startlingly familiar blue gaze before she felt herself slip into blackness.


	4. Reunion

**Finally! The anxiously awaited meeting. Normally I hate cliffhangers, but since I am writing at a good pace, I see no problem in having them!**

 **Thank you for the reviews and I would love to get more *hint, hint*. I hope everybody is enjoying the story so far, this is where the action starts to pick up. I've been tirelessly researching most historical aspects before I include them, I'm trying to be as accurate as I can be. After writing this chapter, I think I am going to stick to a word count of 1,200-2,500 for the future.**

 **Anyways, I've tried my best to edit so far but if you find any terrible mistakes, please let me know! As I've said before, I don't own anything.**

* * *

Slowly Christine opened her eyes, her body was racked with pain and her head throbbed mercilessly. She reached out and grasped an arm, causing the person to jump in alarm. "Begging my pardon, dear! I didn't know you were awake. You took quite a nasty blow, but don't fret, it doesn't look like it's gonna scar." said the voice. "Where am I?" Christine asked groggily. She barely noticed that the words had escaped her mouth in English and she was thankful for the many hours she spent studying and practicing it with Raoul's various friends on their way to London.

"There will be more than enough time for that later, my dear. For now just try to rest. Here this will help…" The woman tilted a sweet liquid down Christine's throat. Her pain quickly dissolved as she felt her whole body relax and sleep take her once again. This time she had a very peculiar dream... She had dreamt that she gazed into the eyes of her rescuer, barely able to make out that half his face was covered by a white mask. The sweet realization was almost too much for her to bear, her Angel alive and by her side again; she never wanted to wake. But she did not have time to linger in the world of dreams, for she was roused by raised voices. She heard the sweet voice from before and what sounded like a man's voice. He was clearly angry, yet his voice was beautifully melodic.

"But begging your pardon, sir, I will not let you throw this girl out into the streets or turn her over to the authorities. She is barely a child and injured to boot!" protested the matronly voice. "Elsie, please. I did not suggest we put our young guest out, but I still do not think she can stay here. It is improper for a young lady to live unmarried under the same roof as a man and I do not want to be brought into scandal." the male voice responded coolly.

"How can you say this? She ain't even awake yet! At least let the child stay for a little while…" the woman pleaded. "Yes, of course she can stay until she wakes, but she cannot remain for much longer than that. Think on it, Elsie. She probably has a husband and a family, imagine what they would think if I kept her here. Would it not be such a faraway conclusion to think that I was responsible for her attack?" said the man pensively. "Sir, I know tinn't my place as a servant but if you were my son, I would right box your ears for such words!" she retorted.

Christine felt a pang of gratefulness mingled with fear for the woman who was so vehemently defending her and the whipping that would most likely follow for her impudence. But to her surprise, the man paused and let out a small chuckle. "Well, I know you are nothing if not honest, Elsie. If the young woman is to stay, you must always be present to prevent anybody from bringing me under suspicion." The woman called Elsie could not understand for the life of her why her master was so concerned with propriety. He was a famous composer and respected architect, yet he behaved like a criminal on the run. Nevertheless, she agreed to his strange request and went downstairs to prepare his dinner.

Christine did not catch the end of the conversation because she had drifted off once again. It was several hours later when she finally fully stirred. The room was bathed in total darkness save the fuzzy glow emitted from the small candle at her bedside, its light casting complex shadows against the walls. Clutching her aching head in one hand and the candle in the other, she made her way to the window and hesitantly peeked out of the curtains, the vast blackness of night engulfing nearly everything. There was no moon and the dim streetlamps below struggled in vain to illuminate the evening.

She turned from the window and held up the candle to better glimpse her surroundings. Though the light was faint, she could see that she was in a rather large and extravagant bedroom. Four dark wood posts rose proudly from the bed, the rest of the furniture matching it. An ivory silk chair sat in the corner with something dark draped over it. She walked over to the chair and picked up the bundle of material, it was a silk dressing robe. Christine threw it on over her chemise graciously and glided towards the door, eager to see the rest of the house.

As she walked down the narrow hallway her small light brought the paintings on the walls into focus. They were beautiful pieces, each showing something different, yet all of them complementing the richness of the wallpaper and architectural detail of the home. _Whomever lives here must be a wealthy art collector._ When she reached the stairs, she could see that there were additional flights winding upwards. She was tempted to explore but concentrated instead on finding someone to inform she was awake.

She descended the stairs carefully, deliberately placing each foot down, there were no lights save her candle; the house itself seemed to reflect the darkness outside. She pondered how unusual this was, when she had lived with Raoul the house was never dark. Always there was someone to keep the candles or gas lanterns lit and always there was a servant to be found. This house seemed deserted save a distant beam of light cast from under a pair of doors at the bottom of the stairs. _Someone was in that room._ She walked towards the doors and, holding her breath, slowly pushed one open.

To her relief there was no sound and she quietly entered the room. Her eyes widened in surprise and she clamped her free hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The room was clearly a man's study, decorated in the same dark wood as the bedroom. Full bookshelves soared to the ceiling; a large desk sat grandly in front of a pair of curtained windows; a fire glowed in a magnificent fireplace; in front of the fireplace was an elegant silken sofa and matching chairs; a mother-of-pearl globe sat behind the desk; and in the corner was a lovely little upright piano. She kept her hand pressed to her mouth after the initial awe at the room's beauty, she was so caught up in her admiration that it took her a second to notice the figure seated on the piano bench.

A second gasp threatened to escape her lips had her hand not been firmly in place, there seated facing the piano was a man. His dark hair was slightly amiss, his back straight as his fingers hovered over the keys, she waited for the music to come, waited for what seemed like ages, but it never did. He sat there as if frozen, the light in the room lending his black velvet smoking jacket a glossy sheen. For a stark instant she was reminded of the night she first met her Angel, when she awoke to find him writing music at his organ. _But that was quite impossible, he had died long ago..._ Before she was aware of her own body's movement, she crept forward as if drawn by some invisible force and gently placed her hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

The man paused and spun around to face her, Christine jumped back in astonishment at the quickness of his reaction. "Forgive me, Monsieur, I did not mean to startle you!" She swallowed hard as she jerked her eyes upwards to gaze upon his face, briefly seeing her own shock reflected in the deep blue of his eyes. Christine took one look at his face and fainted dead away.

With catlike reflexes, the man sprang to his feet and caught Christine's body gently as she fell to the floor. He carried her across the room and lightly placed her on the sofa. He rang for his maid with agitation but was met with no response. _Did he not stress to her how important her presence was at all times?_ He returned the bell to the corner of his desk when the clock in the hall chimed, announcing it was an hour past midnight. _No wonder she had gone, she mustn't have expected the girl to wake before tomorrow morning..._ Cursing under his breath, he made his way to his desk and rummaged around in the drawer until he found what he was looking for. He walked back over to the sofa and wavered, staring at the figure lying before him and reflecting on the night he found her.

* * *

 _It was a little after ten o'clock when the man finally left the concert hall. He huffed in annoyance as he walked down the front steps, clearly he had forgotten how aggravating conducting was. It was the third rehearsal for his revival of Joseph Haydn's London Symphonies, something he chose to commemorate the grand reopening and the regular conductor had fallen ill the week before; forcing him to temporarily step in if they were to be prepared for the April 29th concert date._

 _He thought back five years to when he first read about Queen Victoria taking design submissions for a new concert hall in London. The building was to be a tribute to her late husband, Prince Albert, and she shocked society by encouraging unknown architects and aspiring engineers in a public contest. It was something he had wanted to do since his childhood, his chance at introducing the world to the beauty within his mind, something he longed for since he missed the deadline to design a Paris opera house all those years ago. Erik was initially hesitant but under the encouragement of his old friend, Madame Giry, he submitted his work._

 _It wasn't until almost a year later that he heard back from the contractors saying he had won the contest and construction was to commence immediately. They sent him another letter when the building was nearing completion, inviting him to witness and meet the Queen. It coincided nearly perfectly with the incident at the Opera Populaire so within a fortnight of the disaster, he was in London._

 _Though he missed the opera and was utterly devastated at having lost Christine, in a few short months he had made a name for himself within the most desirable social circles in England. Queen Victoria had met with him on two separate occasions and he had even made some true friends, his closest were Sir John Norton, a London solicitor turned manager of the concert hall and Colonel Reginald Crawford of the Royal Engineer's. He resumed composition to alleviate his internal agony, although he never played anything he wrote. Music publishers were only too happy to pay him handsomely for both his scores and parlor sheet music. The nobility was enraptured by the endless talent of this new foreign architect and the aura of mystery that surrounded him. Details of his past were greatly romanticized and his insistence on delivering his work to his publishers late at night only fueled their imaginations._

 _As he reached the cobbled sidewalk, he turned back to admire the beauty of his concert hall. He was very impressed how well it had come together even without his supervision, although it hadn't been without its fair share of problems. Six months from the dedication, Queen Victoria's contractor had decided to bring in well-regarded civil engineers to oversee the construction of the actual concert hall and its acoustics. Erik had protested claiming the engineers knew nothing about music and could only guess at what they were doing, but had been turned away._

 _The Royal Albert Hall had opened on its scheduled date of March 29th, 1871. A concert was held in honor of the Queen, wherein it was realized just how terrible the acoustics were. Erik had attended the premiere and been completely disgusted. As the hall was emptying out, he overheard the audience members joking about how pleased the composer must have been to hear his work twice. He couldn't help the smug sense of satisfaction that arose within him, a feeling that was reinforced when he received a summons from the Queen the next day. She had asked him if he could improve the abysmal acoustics for a reopening in two year's time and assured him he would have every resource at his disposal._

 _Of course he accepted her proposal and after nearly two years of round the clock labor, he had finally gutted the inside and rebuilt it from scratch. During the reconstruction, the orchestra had been forced to rehearse in an adjacent empty building. They had only been able to return to the concert hall in the past week. Then the conductor had become indisposed and Erik had filled the post with a determined gusto, working the musicians from dawn until nearly midnight each night. The first few days were fraught with wrong notes, bad key changes, and terrible discordance. The concert was only a few days away and there was still an abundance of errors._

 _Finally, at five past ten, he decided he could take no more and dismissed them for the night. His temper had nearly reached its boiling point and he resolved to walk home to clear his head. The night was unusually cold for late April and he was thankful he brought along his wool cloak. He was almost to his residence when he heard a gunshot. He cautiously walked along the fence encompassing the small park to investigate; that's when he heard the screams, a woman's screams. Without thinking, he stealthily ran towards the commotion, moving through the shadows to avoid detection._

 _He reached the scene of the crime shortly thereafter, watching from the treeline. A burly man was standing there facing a lone tree, he was struggling with something, when Erik heard the terrified sobs he realized there was a woman between the man and the tree. All he could see of her were her long, dark curls reflecting the moonlight, curls that painstakingly reminded him so much of Christine's... He was about to reveal himself when he heard a loud crack followed by a ripping noise. The man must have smashed her against the trunk. The degenerate laughed mirthlessly and Erik saw him pull up the woman's skirts._

 _In the next moment he had pulled out his own pistol and struck the criminal in the back of the head with a sharp blow. The pistol was not his weapon of choice but he had given the lasso up long ago, choosing instead to blend in with other London gentlemen. The woman had fainted around the same time and he hastily threw his cloak around her to protect her modesty before scooping her limp body up and carrying her back to his house. In the clamor, he had not looked at her face, instead placing her in one of the guest bedrooms and summoning his maid to tend her._

* * *

That night he had dreamt it was Christine that he had rescued and she had professed her love for him upon waking, but he had dismissed that notion in irritation. He hadn't seen the woman's face and did not wish to; he did not know what he feared more, that it could be Christine or the disappointment he would feel if it wasn't. Now, just as in his numerous dreams, she laid there before his eyes. _God, she was just as beautiful as he remembered, maybe even more so._ He swallowed and grabbed the edge of the chair to steady himself as two years of repressed feelings welled up and threatened to suffocate him. _No, I cannot allow myself to fall into this trap once again..._ he thought painfully as he fought to compartmentalize these emotions once again.

When he had collected himself, he sighed deeply, opened the vinaigrette, and wafted it under her nose. _Here goes nothing._ Her soft brown eyes snapped open almost immediately and focused on his face.


	5. A Dinner with a Twist

**Okay, so I started writing this at 2 am, right after I posted the last chapter. I worked on it for most of today and was pleasantly surprised that the ideas seemed to flow.**

 **This one ends on little less of a cliffhanger, but like I said, things are really starting to pick up and will be at a frantic pace from here on out. There's a nice surprise at the end of it and an invitation. (;**

 **I hope you enjoyed the flashback in the last chapter, there are more to come. We still haven't seen anything of the mysterious old woman from chapter 1 but that resolution is coming. Thank you for the reviews and, of course, I don't own anything!**

Time itself seemed to freeze as the two pair of eyes beheld one another for the first time in years; brown probing the depths of blue. There was something different in those eyes since she last looked into them, something she didn't recognize. With a sinking feeling she noticed they held the same sadness, but it was barely perceptible. She broke into an unsure smile as she greeted him, "Angel! I thought you dead, how is this possible? Am I dreaming once again?" He said nothing, continuing to study her.

He unclenched his jaw as he spoke deliberately, "No. You are very much awake..." Just hearing her, looking into her eyes again was intoxicating and threatened to overwhelm him. _Had she said she had dreamed of him?_ He realized how idiotic he must sound, but upon seeing her, his mind halted and he found it incredibly difficult to do anything but stare. Once more he felt his feelings gnawing at his insides and fought to quash them.

When he at last said something, she felt dizzy. Christine had forgotten how deep and melodic his voice was and even when speaking it delighted her very soul. He opened his mouth again to say something but closed it after a few seconds had passed. His eyes swept over her swiftly, stopping and narrowing when he noticed the small cut at her hairline. She closed her eyes and felt her head pounding, but she barely felt the sting of her small abrasion. Something inside was yearning to break free, some creature straining to break its bonds; she wanted to tell him everything, and was preparing to do so when he cut her off. "You should not be out of bed. Come, let's get you back."

Without waiting for her permission, he gathered her up effortlessly, she instinctively wrapped her slender arms around his neck as he began walking towards the door. He wasn't out of breath when they at last reached her room and as he placed her back in bed she marveled at how strong he still was. He pulled the covers over her and she grasped his arm. "Thank you, Angel for all you have done. I must tell you everything at once!" she half-shouted, tripping over her own words.

"There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow, but the hour is late and you need your rest." he said faintly, she could tell he was deep in thought. "Do you promise?" she asked suddenly, worried that her savior was an apparition and would disappear if she closed her eyes. He let out a deep chuckle and Christine let the rich timbre of the sound relax her. "Well, as this is my home and my concert hall opens in two days time, I doubt I will be traveling." he calmly replied.

"Concert hall?! But how...what...?" she asked incredulously. He answered her again, this time more firmly, "We can speak tomorrow. You need sleep." Christine said nothing, instead reaching up and brushing the unaffected side of his face with her fingers, she felt his jaw set as he recoiled from her touch. From the sound of his footsteps, she realized he was walking towards the door and called out to him without thinking, "Angel, wait! Do you have a name?" She felt stupid for asking such a question, of course he must have a name, but she had never thought to ask it previously.

There was silence as the door opened and with disappointment, she thought he had ignored her. He responded so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, "It's Erik..." he said, his voice fading as he walked through the door. When she heard it click shut, she sank back onto her pillow, repeating his name over and over again in her mind, relishing in its sound. _Erik, Erik, Erik..._ She sighed and sank into a peaceful sleep.

As Erik closed the door behind him, he paused and touched his cheek. The place where her hand had been just a short time before felt like it had been branded, his heart galloped forth like a spooked horse. _Lord, if she only knew the power she still held over him._ He resolved he would never let her and would keep his distance. When he had settled himself and his heartbeat had slowed, he returned to his study to extinguish the fire and gas lantern, and retired to his bedroom.

The next morning he was awake and at the concert hall before the sun lazily rose and attempted to fight its way through the thick clouds. He had run into his maid on the front steps and instructed her to look after Christine and prepare her whatever she desired. He was able to put Christine from his mind for the duration of his work, besides he had more pressing concerns. Though the orchestra seemed to have improved since the previous night, they still played incorrect notes on occasion and the horns lagged behind the strings. At half past nine, he instructed them to play the last symphony, Symphony No. 104 in D major, aptly dubbed, _London_. To his surprise and delight, they played it with near perfection. It appeared all of his corrections and hard work were finally setting in.

He decided to end rehearsal that exhilarating note and walked out of the building in good spirits. He cheerfully had the attendant order his carriage and made his way back home. He was on such a high as he walked in the front door that he began to hum the tune of the symphony, abruptly stopping when he walked into his study and saw Christine sitting on the sofa waiting for him. If she had noticed his humming, she said nothing, only staring at him.

"Good evening, Monsieur." she greeted him merrily. He nodded curtly and proceeded to remove his jacket, hanging it on the small rack by the door. "I've met your maid, Mrs. Foley, she's very kind. I asked her to prepare your dinner but she said you had probably already eaten." she continued. "I have." he lied. He looked around the room in feigned interest, hoping to avoid her eyes, but he was ultimately unsuccessful. They looked at one another for a long moment, each saying nothing.

He broke the contact with enormous effort and walked to the cabinet, returning with a glass of brandy. He sat down in the chair farthest from her and swirled the liquid in his glass. "How are you feeling today?" he asked, speaking to his lap. She touched her head in response, "Much better, it seems I've had a lifetime of sleep the past couple of days." He again nodded. This time he spoke with a frigid note in his voice, "So what brings you to London, Vicomtesse? And how is it you landed yourself in such a ... _compromising_ position?" The inflection with which he uttered her title was marked with displeasure.

Maybe he did hate her, he had every right to, she reasoned. Stuttering lightly, she launched into her story, unable to stop the words from pouring forth. He listened to her every word, occasionally pausing to nurse his brandy. "Vicomtesse no longer, Raoul is ... _dead._ " she finished, correcting his earlier mistake, her eyes welling up with tears. He instantaneously felt horrible and stiffly offered her his handkerchief. As if to affirm, she handed him the daily paper. It was wrinkled and stained with tears, but he was able to discern what she was showing him. On the page, in bold lettering, it read: " **Young French Vicomte Killed in Park Robbery, Vicomtesse Also Missing and Presumed Deceased**."

He rose from his seat and placed a hand on her shoulder, "My condolences for your loss, the grief must be unimaginable. Where were you staying in London?" he asked sympathetically. "We were staying at the summer residence of the Earl of Grantham." she replied, trying to keep her composure, "I don't think I shall like to return..." He nodded yet again. "France then?" he asked with a hint of sadness. Though having Christine re-enter his life was torturous, reawakening long forgotten feelings, he did not think he would be able to easily part ways. He felt an awful guilt at the hope that had risen in his chest after learning her husband was dead.

She shook her head, tears falling steadily, "No. With Raoul gone, there would be no point. I think I would like to stay in London, here, with you. If it is acceptable..." His heart fluttered at her inquiry, but he ignored it. "Of course. I shall send my man over in the morning to gather your belongings and your maid." When he spoke, his voice was unsteady. She hardly appeared to have noticed. To his surprise, she let out a small giggle, "Thank you, but retrieving my maid is quite unnecessary. She's probably returned to France by now, she always detested me and is probably relieved to think I am dead. I do not require a maid, Mrs. Foley will suffice." He looked at her in alarm. _Could it be possible that she had not lived the fairy-tale life with her handsome Vicomte? Why else would her servants despise her?_

"Very well. If you'll excuse me, I have arrangements to make. Good night, Christine." he said, hastily bowing as he walked through the doors. Christine sat there on the sofa for a long time thereafter, contemplating what had transpired. She could not believe he had agreed to allow her to stay with him but was gladdened. She felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest at the thought of her reunion with her Angel. Soon the clock struck midnight and she decided she should go to bed. That night she rested easily, her conscience having been cleared.

The next morning she was jarred from sleep by Mrs. Foley putting her clothes in the wardrobe. The old woman was tut-tutting over this loose thread or that bit of wear. When she noticed Christine had risen, she wished her a good morning in a chipper fashion. "Your things came early in the morn'." she said, fretting over a long yellow spring dress. "Didn't you have a maid? These dresses are in such a state..." she asked in annoyance. "Yes, but she never really liked me much..." Christine answered truthfully. The plump woman shook her head, causing her wispy blonde hairs to come loose from her bun. "Maids these days, Lord, save me!" she exclaimed in exasperation, throwing her hands up.

Christine smiled, it was nice to feel cared for. "I suppose we should get you washed up and dressed... that reminds me, Master Leroux is having a couple dinner guests tonight, we'll have to be sure your dress is fitting." the older woman stated, hurrying Christine out of bed and into the bath she had drawn. When Christine was clean and dressed, she went to Erik's study and plucked a book from the shelf, a copy of _Madame Bovary_. She walked into the parlor and sat in a chair by the window, drinking in the natural light. She was delighted that Erik had such a vast book collection, Raoul had strongly discouraged Christine from reading such things.

She was so enthralled in the novel that she only noticed it was nearly six o'clock when the clock chimed and the front door opened. Erik found her spot in the parlor and observed her with quiet approval. "I trust Elsie has informed you of my dinner plans tonight." She nodded. "Your presence would be appreciated, if you feel up to it." he said absentmindedly. "Of course! I've greatly been looking forward to it!" she replied with gusto. It was his turn to nod. "I must change for dinner, my guests will arrive within the hour." he said as he walked through the archway and up the stairs.

Christine followed his lead and went to her room to change. Her head was spinning as she selected a simple blue evening dress from the wardrobe. _Who were Erik's dinner guests? What exactly had he been doing the last two years?_ He seemed to have adjusted and integrated himself into society beautifully. She struggled to lace her dress up when Mrs. Foley burst into the room, her apron stained and flour adorning her round cheeks, "Begging your pardon, Miss! I forgot you might need help lacing yourself up." Christine felt a pang of guilt at having interrupted the woman while she was cooking their dinner, but the maid seemed unconcerned.

She laced up Christine's corset and dress with expert fingers, she then brushed out Christine's curls and fastened half of her hair back with an ornate silver pin. "There." she said, "It ain't much but I hope you'll find it fair. With your pardon, I'll be returning to the kitchen now." Christine gestured her dismissal and the woman hurried out of the room. She beheld herself in the vanity mirror, hoping Erik's guests approved of her. She quietly found the drawing room. He was already waiting for her, facing the window.

Erik heard her light footsteps as she entered the room and slowly turned to face her. He felt light-headed as he beheld her, even in a simple evening gown, she looked radiant. She had not changed a bit from his memory, except to him she seemed more attractive, having filled out a little since he last saw her. "You look very nice." he said, smiling slightly. She returned his smile but before anymore words could be exchanged, there was a knock at the door. The butler, whom Christine had never seen before, opened the door and ushered the guests into the parlor. Christine almost fainted when she saw who had entered the room. There standing in front of her was Annabelle and her brother William. They looked just as surprised as her, if not more so.

"Oooh, Christine! I knew the papers were claiming falsehoods!" squealed Annabelle as she ran up and hugged Christine. William paused and studied her as if he had seen a ghost, his face was pale, "Christine, it is a great relief to see you again. Are the rumors concerning Raoul...?" she nodded in sad affirmation. "My deepest condolences then. He was a good friend." Erik could scarcely believe the scene unfolding before his eyes. _How had they known each other?_ It quickly dawned on him that her husband had probably introduced them. He shook the puzzlement out of his head and spoke, "I believe Elsie will be serving dinner now. Shall we go through?"

The three others followed him as he showed them to the dining room. The places were already set and Mrs. Foley and the butler were already carrying dishes up from the kitchen. The dinner was exquisite and delicious. The first courses were eaten in silence, everybody lost in his or her own thoughts. When the main course was served, Annabelle chose to speak, "Erik, I trust your orchestra has finally mastered the pieces for the re-opening tomorrow." He looked up at her, swallowing his food, "Yes, I believe they have at last. I'll admit, I thought it might never happen based on the rehearsal two nights past." She giggled into her napkin, causing him to raise his brow.

Annabelle looked at Christine, noting the confusion. "Did you not tell Christine? I had assumed she would be your escort for the evening." Erik choked on his wine slightly at the bold suggestion and shook his head. Without waiting for his permission, Annabelle launched into the story of Erik's concert hall and her brother's patronage. When the young girl had finished, Christine flashed him a smile, he looked away quickly. Realizing he could no longer avoid the topic, he took another sip of wine and started, "Yes, Madame de Chagny, is of course invited if she feels up to it." The young girl made an excited sound in response, and he smiled at his plate, Annabelle could be quite persuasive sometimes.

The remainder of the dinner passed without much conversation. Shortly afterwards, Annabelle was embracing her good-bye. "See you tomorrow evening!" she called as she walked down the front steps. When they were alone in the hall, Erik turned to her, "I apologize for my rudeness, I would have asked sooner but I thought it improper so soon after ... what happened." he said at last, struggling with the last few words. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm and felt him tense. "It's quite alright. If you'll excuse me, I will retire for the evening." He acknowledged her words with a small gesture of his hand and bid her good night, retreating into his study. She reached her room and flopped onto the bed. _He was right, what was wrong with her? She should be in full mourning, her husband, her love, Raoul was dead._ Yet she couldn't shake the tingling elation, the giddiness at having found Erik again. After an eternity, she managed to unlace her dress enough to wriggle out of and stripped down to her chemise. She laid in bed for an even longer period, staring up at the ceiling, unable to halt her racing mind.

She was incredibly anxious and excited over the symphony tomorrow, when she would be presented to the world on Erik's arm. Her joy invaded her every muscle, relaxing them and luring her into an erratic sleep. Christine once again dreamed she was on stage with her Angel during _Don Juan Triumphant_ , his hands gliding over her bodice smoothly. _Perhaps tomorrow her dreams would become a reality..._


	6. The Symphony

**It's about time to post a new chapter; the next one should follow pretty quickly. I already know the direction in which the story is going and have most of the last few chapters completed. That's a big problem of mine, working out of order. :/**

 **[Next paragraph is just me answering a review, skip if you please!]**

 **So as per usual, I love reviews! I recently got one that brought up something I wanted to address. It involves the issue of Christine's emotional state since the "accident" (I don't want to give away too many spoilers those who skim). For a lot of people reading, it may seem like Christine is really calm given all that has happened to her and I don't deny she is. I intentionally wrote it that way and as she and Erik spend more time together, you'll see she's setting up for an intense internal conflict (there's some hinting at that from the little italicized thought snippets). For the past 2 years, Christine has been carrying an enormous amount of guilt regarding Erik but has been internalizing it out of respect for Raoul. She is still young and naive, and though she has matured, she can't fully grasp the implications behind her recurrent dreams, thoughts, and emptiness. Christine is heavily in denial at present; she was in denial even before the recent events. The reasons for her attitude can be attributed to a "perfect storm" of sorts; the foreign setting, intense trauma, and unexpected reunion with Erik are all contributing factors to her extreme denial. It's not so dissimilar to how victims of serious physical and mental trauma sometimes appear apathetic; it's a coping mechanism. The joy at having Erik back in her life has assuaged some of her previous regrets and is what tipped her into almost a surreal state. If it hadn't happened that way, she would most definitely be in a very different condition. As for the sex, that's been a constant question of the "right" time. I think I've found a place to include it where (I hope) it will be very understandable and believable. While I don't know if I'm going to have them confess their love outright, it will definitely be implied that those feelings are what is driving them rather than lust. The confession of love brings me into another territory, I feel like denial is a BIG theme in this story. Given what we know about Erik's character, it would be implausible for him not to be wary of Christine. He opened up to her and she betrayed him publicly, that's an ugly thing to have hanging over any relationship, especially one as fragile as theirs. This is sort of the "honeymoon phase," for lack of a better term; in their joy, they are ignoring their history together but it's not something sustainable. Their past will cause him to question any feelings she might have for him, so it may be a while before they are ready to move past everything and admit they are very much in love.**

 **[End of long-winded speech :)]**

 **So, I hope I have adequately answered everything without revealing too much. I really appreciate reviews and questions, it keeps me on my toes. Without further ado, please enjoy the next chapter and I don't own anything blah blah blah.**

Christine awoke late the next morning. She put a robe on and went downstairs, letting the delicious aroma of baked goods guide her to the dining room. She walked in right as Mrs. Foley was setting her a place, piling fresh pastries on a plate alongside sausages and a jar of marmalade. "Well, look who finally graces us with her presence!" The old woman chuckled. "Master Leroux left early to prepare but he will return at seven o'clock to pick you up. He's trusted me to see you're ready. Have you picked a dress?" Christine shook her head vigorously while biting into a pastry.

The maid clicked her tongue, "Well, we'll choose after breakfast then." When Christine had eaten her fill, she followed Mrs. Foley upstairs to the bedroom. She allowed the older woman to flip through the wardrobe as she brushed her hair at the vanity. "Ha! This one'll do nicely." she said, pulling a lovely burgundy evening dress out and laying it carefully across the bed. Christine smiled in approval, she had always liked that particular dress.

The remainder of the morning and afternoon went by at lightning pace; soon Christine had finished her bath and was being laced into her gown by Mrs. Foley, her crinolette and bustle causing the older woman to extend her arms fully, slowing the process. "Now, let's see if we can do something with that mess." she said, picking up a handful of chocolate curls. An hour of sweat, swearing, and hard labor later, Christine's hair was finished. She beheld it with adoration in her vanity mirror; it was wrapped in a high chignon with a few curls left to frame her face and fall down her back. Mrs. Foley had secured it with a simple diamond hair pin and brought out one of Christine's diamond necklaces to complete her look. "We should go down child, he'll arrive soon." said the old maid, starting towards the door.

Christine followed the other woman until she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror that rested in the corner of the room. She saw the hand of her reflection move up and touch the impressive necklace resting at her throat. The metal was shockingly cold to the touch. She gasped, as Raoul's smile flashed through her mind. He had his jeweler in Paris create this for her while he was away at sea. It was supposed to be a reassurance of the love he held for her even when separated but she had always found it so cold and ostentatious. _Cold like my heart..._ she thought. "You're quite the beauty, dear." Mrs. Foley said, her voice bringing Christine back to reality. "Now, come, he's here and won't be kept waiting." she said, hurrying the younger woman through the door and down the stairs.

She coaxed her charge into the parlor where Erik stood with his back to them, already dressed for the evening. He turned to face them once they had entered and allowed his eyes to roam freely over every part of Christine. The dress material was too heavy for her slight form and the necklace she wore looked absurd against her thin neck, however she still looked incredibly beautiful. After a moment he smiled, "You've done well, Elsie. Thank you. You may have the rest of the evening for your leisure." She nodded and hustled out of the room, issuing her thanks and wishing him well on his big evening.

Christine and Erik stood in silence for a moment, "You look quite lovely tonight." he said softly. She smiled and looked up but quickly averted her eyes under the intensity of his gaze. _Was she imagining the ardent longing in that look?_ "And you." she replied, staring at the rug beneath her feet. His expression remained unchanged by her words but she did not notice. "My carriage is waiting, shall we?" he said, taking her by the hand; his leather met her satin and both shared in the wish that there was no such barrier between their skin, yet neither let their disappointment be expressed.

He guided her outside and helped her into the carriage. When it set off they were immediately thrust into another uncomfortable silence. She kept looking at him in the darkness, he seemed preoccupied, nervous even. She tried to recall a time when the Phantom had been visibly uneasy and couldn't think of one. What could possibly have made him so jittery? Her question wasn't answered until they came to a stop amidst a long line of carriages. The driver opened the door for them and helped her out. Her jaw dropped when she saw the building in front of her and she gawked foolishly. "I hope that is a sign of approval..." came his voice from over her shoulder. He seemed pleasantly amused.

"It's so beautiful!" exclaimed Christine in wonder. Truthfully she had only ever known the Opera Populaire, and while she held vague memories of the concert halls her father once performed in, she was sure she had never witnessed anything on this level of grandeur. The elliptical shape of the building was novel without being too unusual and the red brick and terra-cotta facade gave it a warm, pleasing appearance. "Come, let us go inside. Our presence will be expected." he said, taking ahold of her arm confidently, it seemed his temporary nerves had passed.

As they walked into the concert hall, Christine gasped; the inside was somehow even more magnificent than the outside. Taking advantage of her speechlessness, he began offering her information, "The Royal Albert Hall; named for the late Prince Consort. The first stone was laid by Her Majesty. If you look above there is a picture gallery..." he said, pointing above her head. "Another time, we will enter through the Royal Horticultural Society gardens, they are superb this time of year. Perhaps during the day-" he began, but he was cut-off by an older gentleman wading through the crowd towards them, calling his name. The man was tall, but not as tall as Erik. He sported an impressive brown mustache that matched his hair almost perfectly, except for the grey starting to show at his temples. For a brief moment he reminded Christine of Richard Firmin, co-manager of the Opera Populaire.

"Erik, my boy, there you are! Her Majesty arrived twenty minutes past and it's all a nightmare. My nerves are absolutely shot." the man said hastily. "Good evening, Reginald. I am indeed sorry to hear that you are in such a state." Erik replied, calmly eyeing the man in front of him. Hearing Erik's voice seemed to momentarily soothe the man and he finally noticed Christine at his friend's side. "My my, who is this remarkable beauty?" Reginald asked. "Christine, allow me to introduce Colonel Reginald Crawford of the Royal Engineer's, one of the original twelve board members and responsible for the construction. Reginald, this is a widowed friend of Annabelle's, Christine de Chagny." The older man reached out and kissed Christine's hand delicately. "It is a pleasure, Madame de Chagny." He looked like he might say something else, but it was Erik's turn to interrupt.

"Reginald, if you would be so kind as to escort the lady to the correct box. I believe William and Annabelle have already arrived." She looked from Erik to Reginald, a small frown appearing between her brow, "You won't be joining us?" she asked uncertainly. Reginald guffawed and said, "I should think it quite impossible to conduct from a box seat." This only increased her befuddlement. Ignoring his friend, Erik turned to her, "The maestro is still abed. I will be conducting tonight but I will return during intermission." he said pragmatically.

"Erik, you are not even dressed yet, we'll never manage to pull this off. The orchestra is mediocre at best; it's probably bedlam backstage as they prepare. We should have never agreed to this re-opening. All the money and time that has gone into this day... How ever will we recoup our losses? We are ruined!" Reginald said, the panic returning to his voice. Erik regarded his friend with interest, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Relax, old friend, I have conditioned them well. Don't you trust me at the helm of your ship?" The Colonel rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I suppose the hour is too late for such concerns, we've committed either way. We shall toast either to victory or defeat. If you'll come along, Madame." he said in a resigned voice, gesturing towards Christine.

She turned to follow Colonel Crawford but stopped when she felt Erik's hand on her shoulder. "Always so melodramatic those military types. Do look out for him and try to enjoy the show, I am sure they have smelling salts on hand just in case…" He let his voice trail off for effect. Shooting her a smirk and a wink, Erik turned and walked across the hall, while Christine rushed after Reginald, who was waiting for her at the base of the staircase, muttering worriedly under his breath.

She followed him up the stairs and was led to their box. The interior was red, just like the Opera Populaire, however this box was substantially larger and seated more people. She saw William and Annabelle, their backs to her, engaged in conversation with people she didn't recognize. She moved towards an empty seat in the back row but was stopped by Reginald. "Our seats are the front-most ones, Madame." he said pointing. She murmured her acknowledgement and took the seat next to him. She felt someone squeeze her shoulder and turned her head to see Annabelle staring at her. "We are ever so delighted you came, aren't we, William?" The boy to her left nodded his approval.

Christine sat in silence for several minutes, trying to process the beauty in front of her. The concert hall was truly immense, it had to seat thousands. Unlike the Opera Populaire, the seats were all arranged around a central area, but perhaps most spectacular was the organ. It was colossal, in perfect keeping with the rest of the hall, with endless pipes stretching hither and thither. She wondered who could play such a monumental instrument and if the resulting sound would deafen both the musician and the audience. _Erik, her Angel, could._ Her mind was immediately filled with the image of his skillful fingers dancing over the keys, applying just the right amount of pressure to wheedle the most beautiful melody out of something so daunting, so seemingly unconquerable. She blushed at recalling the unchecked passion with which he played.

Christine was shaken out of her reminiscing only when Reginald leaned over and whispered that it would soon be starting, she looked down for confirmation and saw that the orchestra was already in place. "Admiring the organ, I see... It's the largest in the world, with over a hundred stops, ten thousand pipes, and four manuals." he informed her, his chest swelling with pride. "Let's hope it doesn't burn down, I had to sign a 999-year lease. But I suppose that's a small price to pay for a box next to Her Majesty's." he continued, attempting humor. Christine smiled slightly at his comment. _Would he have made it had he known about the Opera Populaire disaster?_

Reginald opened his mouth to explain more of the engineering features but closed it once the surrounding gas lights began to dim, leaving only those around the central area and stage shining brightly. A strange man walked up on the stage in front of the orchestra. Reginald observed her puzzled look and whispered, "Erik will be up momentarily, but first Mr. Callcott must give his speech. He is the man who made this building possible." She allowed herself to relax a little and slipped back into her daydreams. _Did Erik even play anymore?_ There had been that one night she saw him, his hands hovering over the piano keys, and clearly he hadn't given music up fully as she had, but she no longer sensed in the deep connection he had once held with it.

She felt Reginald tap her shoulder lightly, "There is Monsieur Leroux now and if I am correct, there will be two symphonies, intermission, and then the final two. I must admit to feeling a great deal more relief at having him conducting tonight than that other fellow..." He ceased speaking once he heard Erik's baton tapping impatiently. She jumped slightly when the blaring of the horns announced the beginning of Haydn's Symphony No. 93 in D Major. Throughout the entirety of the first two symphonies, her eyes were transfixed by Erik's movements, the ethereal beauty of them gave her chills. It was like watching a Master paint or sculpt, just witnessing his visions come to life was thrilling.

She was relieved when the intermission ended and the second two symphonies began. All too soon the strings sounded their final notes and the audience broke into thunderous applause mixed with several whistles and shouts of, "Bravo!" When the noise had begun to die down, Erik signaled the orchestra to stand. He bowed low and they followed his lead with perfect timing. This happened a couple more times until Callcott came back on stage and shook Erik's hand. Both men bowed and Erik left the stage as Callcott gave a final speech. Christine did not hear a single word, she felt as though she was on a cloud, in some far-off dream.

Soon afterwards, people began filing out, and Reginald escorted Christine down the stairs. She was intercepted by an excited Annabelle, who reminded her of the debutante ball that would occur next week and of her promised presence. "Don't worry, Erik is most definitely going to be in attendance. William has already bullied him into bringing you along." Seeing Christine's anxiety at her word choice, she quickly corrected herself, "Not bullied, no, more so of a suggestion, but my brother assures me Erik was positively delighted." She flashed Christine a bright smile. "Oh, well, I must take my leave, William will be getting impatient. See you soon!" she said, placing a quick peck on Christine's cheek and rushing off. Reginald took her arm once again and led her outside to Erik's waiting carriage. "Monsieur Leroux told me to see you off, he has many things left to attend to here, as do I. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame. I hope to see you soon." said Reginald, as he shut the carriage door and waved her off. One thing stood out in her mind... _Was Erik really delighted to accompany her to Annabelle's ball?_

Christine still felt as though she was floating well into the next day. She glided through her morning in a cheerful haze, parts of the symphonies from the night before playing in her head. It was strange but after last night, after experiencing the symphonies by Erik's side, she felt her distrust of music ebbing away. After she had married Raoul, she had lost all interest in music of any kind, something she suspected secretly gladdened her late husband. In Raoul's mind Christine's music is what bound her to the Phantom and when she gave it up, he took it as a quiet reassurance that she had given up her former teacher as well.

There was no sign of Erik, she accepted that he had numerous calls to make and meetings to endure after his success. She attempted to put him from her mind as she settled onto the sofa in the parlor and picked up _Madame Bovary_. She been reading for scarcely an hour when there was a ringing at the door. Mrs. Foley appeared a moment later accompanied by Annabelle. Judging from the stained apron, floured hands, and flushed face, Christine guessed the former had been in the middle of preparing lunch. "The Honorable Miss Annabelle Harland. Begging your pardon, miss, but the butler's off today." announced the maid. Christine closed her novel and stood up. Though she was pleased too see her, she was mystified as to the reason for her friend's visit. "Thank you, Mrs. Foley, I am sorry we interrupted your cooking." she said, throwing the maid a nervous smile.

Mrs. Foley smiled kindly and excused herself from the room. When she had left, Annabelle reached out and grabbed Christine's hand. "Come, Christine. My carriage is waiting and we mustn't be late!" she chattered excitedly, attempting to pull the brunette across the room. "Late for what?" Christine asked obtusely. If she wasn't confused before, she certainly was now. _Where was Annabelle taking her?_ "No time! I'll tell you in the carriage!" Annabelle grunted, still straining to drag Christine into the hall. "Alright, alright. I am coming, just let me retrieve my cloak." she said. "There isn't time! And, there is no need for it, I promise." replied the girl. The brunette sighed and began walking after Annabelle of her own volition. The driver quickly helped both women into the carriage and set off on one of London's numerous streets.

Once they were on the move, Annabelle wasted no time in explaining her urgency. "We are on our way to my dressmaker, it is truly one of the best establishments in all of London. We have an appointment that we absolutely cannot miss! They'll have to get started right away if it is too be completed in time for my ball next week." she said quickly. Christine gazed at her friend stupidly until it clicked in her mind. Annabelle wanted her to aid in choosing a dress for the ball and she suddenly felt a twinge of excitement, she hadn't done anything like this since her days as a ballerina. When the carriage pulled up to the pretty building on Bond Street, the two friends hurried into the shop, tittering heartily. It was almost like being back at the Opera Populaire with Meg.

They were greeted upon entering by an attendant who seemed to know Annabelle and showed them into a cozy room with a platform and mirrors. "I thought we were looking at dresses." Christine said, frowning at the sparsely furnished room surrounding her. Annabelle offered no reply outside of a snort and high-pitched giggle. "One must get fitted before choosing a dress, Christine, and though Redmayne and Co. is among the best, I doubt they have magicians in their employ. Don't fret! You are sure to find something as grand as in the Parisian parlors." Christine looked at her in confusion. "But...I thought you only wanted my opinion, Annabelle, not for me to choose the dress you are presented to society in." she stammered, suddenly aware of the pressure her friend was placing on her.

At this statement, Annabelle let out a peal of laughter, "I already have my dresses for the affair, this appointment is for you. After observing your collection of evening dresses, I thought you could benefit from a visit to a modern dressmaker. I was under the impression that Paris was a house of fashion but your dresses were akin to those of my great aunt!" Now that Annabelle mentioned it, everything she wore while married to Raoul was beautiful but cumbersome. His relatives had stressed extreme modesty, especially after her scandalous past.

"Whomever knew the life of a Vicomtesse was so close to that of a nun? One could hardly tell you were a woman under all of that fabric. Now, let's see if we can find something that flatters you and stuns him." the blonde continued, smiling widely. Christine could only speculate at the identity of the "him" to which she was referring but before she could say something, a plump woman hurried in, stripped her down to her chemise and corset, and began measuring her. After the fitting, they were shown to the dress displays and found one befitting the occasion. Annabelle insisted on paying and purchasing " the exclusive right," so that no other woman would be able to wear the dress.

It was late afternoon when Annabelle's carriage returned to Erik's townhouse. Christine thanked her friend profusely but the girl just grinned. "Really, it was nothing, Christine. I cannot have you competing with every dowager in London on my special day." she said cheekily. As she made her way up the front steps, she heard Annabelle call after her, "See you next week! Make sure to arrive early. I'll have my brother inform Erik as well." Once she was inside, she could not stop smiling. She blushed as she recalled her friend's earlier comment, hoping Erik would indeed approve of her new dress...


	7. A Grand Ball

**Yay! It's time for Annabelle's debutante ball. This looks like it will be a long one. (Sorry, there's no good place to split it!) I already have chapters 8 and 10 almost finished as well, but I write out of order sometimes, so there should be a bunch of new material in the next week.**

 **Thanks for the reviews and the favorite! I like that people are enjoying the story.**

 **You know the usual drill, I don't own anything.**

The days before Annabelle's ball passed with considerable speed. A fact for which Christine was immeasurably grateful, the anxiety over the event threatened to choke the life out of her. She needed reprieve from the thousands of questions that constantly hounded her, sleeping or waking. _Would her new dress look as grand on her as on the model? Would he find it pleasing? Would Annabelle's friends be as accepting as her and William? Would any gentlemen want to dance with her? Would he?_ The constant discordance within the recess of her mind quickly grew wearisome and when the day of the ball finally arrived, she wanted to shout exaltation of her relief to the heavens.

Fulfilling the promise made nearly a week before, she and Erik arrived a couple hours ahead of the other guests. As the carriage pulled up to the summer residence, she saw it was every bit as grand as the one she had stayed in briefly with Raoul. The butler, Strathmore, welcomed them into the foyer where the head maid, Mrs. McGowan, was also. The grandmotherly woman whisked Christine upstairs, while the butler led Erik to the drawing room where William waited. She still couldn't figure out why Annabelle had asked her over so early, aside from the dress, she knew she wouldn't need over two hours to prepare. And the note she received from Annabelle a couple of days previous only added more mystery.

* * *

 _Dearest Christine,_

 _Please be so kind as to arrive at Harland House at 5 o'clock, the festivities will commence at 7 o'clock. You needn't make preparations further than bathing and dressing for the day.  
_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Miss Annabelle Harland_

* * *

 _What could Annabelle want with her?_ She couldn't shake the feeling that her friend had some grandiose scheme involving her planned. Of course, William was only too enthusiastic to indulge his sister's request; he was more than happy to have Erik on hand to help him in readying the house and directing the staff. Christine was guided into a small but pretty bedroom on the second floor and informed that "her" ladies maid would soon be in to ready her for the evening. _Her ladies maid?_ When she heard the door click shut, she let out a great sigh of exasperation. _What could it all mean?_

She didn't have long to ponder because the door soon re-opened and a slight, red-haired girl a couple years younger than herself walked into the room. "Hello, Lady Christine. I'm Dorothy, I'll be your maid. Miss Annabelle sent for me." she said shyly looking down at her hands. "Of course." affirmed Christine. "Do your best." she added, smiling. The girl smiled in turn and nodded vigorously. "Oh, I will, my Lady!" she eagerly answered. "And call me Christine, I insist..."

An hour and a half later, Dorothy had finally finished Christine's hair and was now lacing her dress over the bustle. Christine slipped her shoes on impatiently, she was keen to see how she looked in the new dress. As she placed her foot in the second shoe, she was startled by a loud squeal. There in the doorway stood Annabelle, her flaxen hair piled atop her head elegantly and secured with a splendid diamond and sapphire pin, the sapphires were the same color as her eyes. Her dress was a rich Bleu de France with the most marvelous embroidery she had ever seen. There was another girl standing behind her with the same shock-red hair as Dorothy, however she looked to be older.

"Annabelle, you look perfectly stunning!" said Christine in awe. Her friend smiled appreciatively. "Not compared to you. Christine, you're positively radiant! Have you seen yourself?" Christine shook her head and turned to face the full-length mirror. She let out a gasp. Annabelle was right, she couldn't remember a time when she had looked better. The blonde smiled with glee as she witnessed her friend's reaction. "Dorothy is gifted, just like her sister." She smiled at the two maids affectionately. Christine still could not believe that her friend had gone to such lengths... buying her a dress was one thing, but hiring her a maid was something else entirely. _What was Annabelle hoping to accomplish?_

She glanced at herself a second time, the vivid emerald colored gown complemented her creamy complexion perfectly; the silk and velvet forming a pleasant combination, its intricate bead-work far surpassed anything she had ever seen in France. The neckline plunged just the right amount to be alluring without being seductive and the material hugged her form snugly; it was far more flattering than anything she had worn as the Vicomtesse de Chagny. Sheepishly, Dorothy gave her a hand mirror to better view the back of her hair. The maid had worked it into a high but loose twist that fell down her back and woven a beautiful cream-colored satin ribbon into it, the pale hue standing out in her dark hair. It was anchored in several places with elaborate pearl hair pins; it somewhat resembled her hair during her starting role as Elissa. "Oh, that reminds me! There's just one more thing..." Annabelle said, Rosemary emerged from behind her carrying a velvet box.

As if on cue, the maid walked over to Christine and placed a sublime emerald and diamond necklace around her neck. "Annabelle, I'm very beholden but this isn't necessary, after all, this is your day." she said aghast. The girl seemed not to hear her, "There are matching earrings." Christine relented as the earrings were clipped on. The blonde turned to her, "Come, let's go down, guests will soon be arriving." and, linking arms with the older girl, steered her towards the stairs.

Erik and William stood in the entrance hall, watching the last of the party preparations come together, having already changed for the evening, and each enjoying a glass of scotch as reward for their labors. They heard girlish giggling from upstairs and moved closer to greet their companions. Erik did not see them first emerge at the top of the stairs because he was checking his pocket watch. William's startled gasp regained Erik's attention and the latter's head snapped up alertly. He instantly understood the reason for the boy's reaction and swiftly slid his watch back into his pocket.

His head began to spin when he glimpsed Christine for the first time. He reasoned, for an instant, that he _must_ be dreaming, no mortal could be _that_ divinely beautiful. He struggled to regain control of his breathing as he watched her descend the staircase. Erik gaped at her, gazing perhaps too fiercely; he certainly wasn't prepared for her to look up at him, to look directly into his eyes and smile. When she did and their eyes met fervidly, his entire body flinched and he failed to perceive his glass had slipped from his hand, not noticing until it shattered loudly against the marble. William's eyes moved between a stunned Erik and the broken glass and though he didn't betray himself, he knew what was going on.

At last the pair stood in front of the two men. Erik became aware his mouth was agape and closed it. _How long had he been staring like that?_ "Doesn't she look amazing, Erik?" the young girl asked, a hint of mischief in her voice. He stared blankly for a moment, totally speechless, "Yes, absolutely." he finally managed stupidly.

At last when most of the guests had arrived, Annabelle kicked off the dance with her brother. Christine admired how elegant her friend looked, gliding over the dance floor. She was a perfect lady already; she could play well, dance, was beautiful and educated. Christine envied how easy this life came to her and couldn't help wondering if she would have been adored by Raoul's family if she was more like Annabelle. The past thirty minutes had been a whirlwind as Annabelle had taken it upon herself to play the good host and introduce her friend to everyone, including her "dreadful" great-aunt Blanche, Dowager Countess of Suffolk. She hadn't seen Erik since the first people had shown up and he was whisked away by several men of importance.

Now she stood alone, her eyes unsuccessfully scanning the crowd for any sign of him. Disappointed, she helped herself to some hors d'oeuvres and a glass of champagne. "You had better finish that drink before we dance, I do not believe William would be quick to forgive another of his father's glasses broken at my behest." came a familiar voice from behind her. She spun around to face a smirking Erik, tall and glorious, his half-mask adding sensual mystery. She had downed most of the liquid in the glass by the time everybody else began dancing. Christine placed her glass on a passing footman's tray, startled by Erik's quickness when he took her hand, leading her into a graceful two-step alongside the other couples on the dance floor.

As they moved she was amazed by his skill, the powerful, yet gentle way he dominated her. _Well, no wonder. He had always been light on his feet..._ "I see dear Annabelle has taken the liberty of introducing you to the entire county." he said bemusedly. She didn't reply immediately because at that exact moment she was distracted by a young boy across the room; distracted by the way he looked at Annabelle, it was a gaze of pure adoration. "Yes, she does play a great host... Say, who is that boy over there?" she asked curiously. He laughed, "Oh? Did she not introduce you? I would have thought he would have been your first acquaintance of the evening." Noticing her obliviousness he continued, "That's George Wallenby, only son of one of London's newest and wealthiest bankers. Mr. Wallenby was friends with the late Lord Harland. Annabelle has always fancied him, although from what I've heard, he was far too shy to return any such sentiment. However, if his current expression is any indication, I suspect he will begin calling on her after tonight. Would you like me to introduce you?"

The dance ended and before she could respond, they were standing in front of the boy. He was tall, and though he looked to be the same age, he was not as spindly as William. He was comely with his bright green eyes, wavy brown hair, and upturned nose; his lopsided smile lending a certain boyish charm to his handsome face. "Mister Leroux, so nice to see you. My father says the re-opening of the concert hall was a great success. I heard you even conducted." Erik smiled. "You are quite correct; did you believe I would trust just any fool with a waistcoat and baton for such a monumental occasion?" At this, both men broke out in laughter. "Allow me to introduce you to Lady Christine de Chagny, one of Annabelle's friends." Christine smiled and George planted a shy kiss on her hand. "It's a pleasure." he said, clearly anxious. She found it amusing how nervous the boy was in her presence and soon distanced herself from the conversation that had sprung up between him and Erik.

"May I have this dance, Lady de Chagny?" asked an older gentleman she remembered as Earl Paulding. She looked back at Erik imploringly, he gave her a quick nod indicating his approval, and she accepted the Earl's invitation. The next song started and Christine saw Erik was now dancing with Annabelle. Even though the girl was her friend and thought of Erik as a favorite uncle, she could not help the pang of jealousy that arose. _What was happening?_ She had never felt like this when Raoul had danced with those horrid noblewomen, all of whom she knew were eager to take her place. She put it from her mind and continued to dance with Earl Paulding until he abruptly stopped. "Drat! Forgive me, my dear but my gout is playing up terribly. I hope you do not mind too much." She nodded understandingly and watched him limp off to find a seat.

She wasn't alone for long. Soon a very pretty woman with auburn curls, much like her own, appeared by her side. The woman smiled, "Mrs. Elizabeth Webley-Hawkins." she said politely. Christine returned the favor, wondering why this woman had sought her out. "When I saw such a great beauty as yourself, I was not surprised to see you on the arm of Monsieur Leroux. He always did have a taste for finery." The woman called Elizabeth gave another smile, this time containing a hint of guile. "You know one another?" Christine asked, trying to recall if he had ever mentioned an Elizabeth. "Oh, yes. _Very_ well. He's a famous composer, you know. I met him when he first came to London, we grew incredibly close; he tutored my voice and we were briefly engaged." At this last bit of information, she watched Christine closely, hoping for a reaction. Christine couldn't help but to indulge her unwillingly. "No, he never mentioned..." she said, unable to conceal her hurt and shock. Elizabeth seemed delighted, "No, he wouldn't have. I doubt he'd want to frighten away his current ... _attachment._ He bores easily and is always searching for a new collector's piece; as you can imagine a man such as himself has no trouble finding a treasure richer than the next-" but whatever else she had intended to say was cut short by the appearance of William.

"Christine, would you care to dance?" She nodded as he acknowledged the woman beside her, "Mrs. Webley-Hawkins." he said coldly. Elizabeth pretended not to hear the tone of dislike, "Lord Harland! Your sister's ball is very enjoyable; I hear she was a roaring success." William only looked at her, saying nothing, and proceeded to escort Christine onto the dance floor, the musicians already a third of the way through the song.

"I see you've made a new companion." he said, smiling. Observing her frown still in place and the tears threatening to escape her eyes, he hastily continued, "Erik sent me to rescue you. Pay no mind to what that doxy may have said, she was never one to shy away from theatre." He flashed her another reassuring smile. "Erik never said anything about her..." she mumbled to herself quietly. "I don't see why he would. Their _involvement_ was so short-lived that it would hardly be a topic worth broaching." Christine's heart faltered miserably at the insinuation behind the word "involvement."

But she didn't have time to reflect on it because in an instant, Erik replaced William as her dance partner. "Ah, Strauss', Gunstwerber, Op. 4. A very nice selection, wouldn't you agree?" he said slyly, indicating he had something to do with the current song choice. He must have perceived her disquiet because he lightly, almost imperceptibly, squeezed her back where his hand rested. He wondered what Elizabeth had said, but he darkly noted she must have achieved her purpose.

"I doubt there is any truth in whatever she may have told you." he said quietly, grimacing at the look in her eyes when she attempted a smile. "I promise to divulge everything when we are alone." he whispered. This seemed to relax her and they continued moving in silence until the song ended.

When the music resumed she paused, expecting him to pass her off to someone else, but he didn't let go. "Strauss', Feenmärchen, Op. 312, another delightful composition." His tone implying he had requested it as well. "I'm sorry, Christine." he said genuinely, "I would have saved you from the wretch myself, but I did not think myself capable of feigning civility." Christine smiled at this and it seemed to mollify him. He looked into her eyes in earnest, "I also apologize for my asininity." he said. "Regarding what?" she asked curiously. He cleared his throat nervously, "For not telling you sooner how utterly and completely breathtakingly beautiful you look tonight." He glanced down at her questioningly, something warm and inviting radiating from within the vivid blue depths of his eyes.

His compliment caught her completely off-guard and she blushed furiously, trembling under his gaze. Erik detected this and held her more firmly, gently bringing their bodies closer, pressing his palm into hers and letting out a sharp exhale when he felt the heat of her body. He felt someone staring and turned his head to see Elizabeth's angry face from across the room. Smirking with a smug satisfaction, he returned his eyes to Christine's and lost himself in the music and the superb feeling of her in his arms, only she mattered. _It was becoming quite impossible to suppress his feelings for her; why did she still have this hold on him?_ All too quickly the waltz was at an end and he glanced up to see Annabelle and William waiting for them at the edge of the crowd.

Christine, Erik, and the two siblings stood there conversing idly over last week's symphony, until they were joined by George and another man Christine hadn't met. "I overheard you discussing the symphony and I was just telling young master Wallenby of the magnificence of the organ." said the man. "Yes, Lord Fletcher informed me that it has 8,000 pipes and is powered by an enormous steam engine." continued George, puffing his chest out and eyeing Annabelle. "It is powered by two steam engines and has 9,997 pipes. I could provide you with further specifications, if you would like." Erik said, flashing George a smile. "Well, I would say mine is just a speculative estimate. How are you so familiar with the instrument's specifics, sir?" the other man chimed in, annoyed by Erik's cheek. Surprisingly it was William who spoke next, "I expect Monsieur Leroux should be knowledgeable on the subject, considering he designed and built both it and the concert hall it is housed in."

The two other men and Christine stared at Erik in disbelief. _Why hadn't he told her?_ At that moment, George chose to diffuse any further tension by asking Christine to dance. She accepted and went off with George at the same time Lord Fletcher departed. The three remaining friends paused to watch as Christine and George begin to dance. "Don't be jealous, dear friend. I'm quite assured your love for her returned." said Annabelle reassuringly to Erik. The latter looked at her completely taken aback, William sharing his look of stupefaction.

"I know not what you speak of, Annabelle." Erik replied evasively, her implication had clearly rattled him. She turned to him, her face bathed in skepticism, "Your adoration for Christine could not be more obvious if Lord Byron wrote about it." she said triumphantly. "That is quite enough! It's highly improper for you to speak on matters you have no knowledge of!" William hissed. She ignored him, "You should confess your affection." she continued defiantly. "Annabelle! Forgive my sister, dear chap." Erik gave the pair a wry smile, "What I think, my dear Annabelle, is that it was a mistake to have gifted you that volume of Jane Austen's novels. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go relieve George, he looks a bit like a drowned puppy." Smirking, he started in the direction of Christine and George.

"Annabelle, you shouldn't make such brazen insinuations." William admonished. Annabelle waved her hand dismissively, "Dear brother, surely you've seen the way he looks at her? The way she watches him when he's not looking? You saw them dance earlier, how he pressed his hand to hers and pulled her close? Are you going to pretend you missed his expression when he first laid eyes on her this evening? He was so enamored that he broke one of father's glasses." she looked at him with vindication and pranced off to grab refreshments.

William opened his mouth to speak but the words never came. He knew she was right. In the two years he had known Erik, he had never seen the man look at something with such passion. It was true his friend was a virtuoso, architect, and engineer but he treated all of his compositions and designs as chores, there was no zeal in them. He had looked into Erik's eyes and recognized the loneliness that inhabited them, it was the same look his father had when his mother had died; often he wondered who had left his friend in such a state, but he dared not ask. Now, observing them, he saw what his sister had been so adamant about. They looked like they belonged among the legendary couples of history: Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Helen and Paris, Aeneas and Dido... A smile crossed his lips as he reflected on the irony of his friend's earlier comment to Annabelle; he bore a striking similarity to Austen's Mr. Darcy, his pride would keep him from ever admitting his feelings.

As Erik approached Christine and George, he froze mid-step. He could not shake the girl's words from his mind. _Was he so obvious, so unsuccessful at masking his emotions? More puzzling yet, why would she insist that Christine could possibly return his sentiment or felt anything but security in his presence?_ He did his best to banish these thoughts as he tapped George on the shoulder and took over. Sensing his consternation, she asked what was bothering him, but he assured her all was well and they danced on.

It was late when they found themselves back at Erik's house. As promised, he beckoned her into his study and sat down across from her after pouring himself a drink. "May I know what Elizabeth revealed to you?" he asked, cutting straight to the point. Christine looked at her lap, "She said... she informed me of your engagement with her and that you two were intimately involved." she said, trying to push back her dejection. Erik made a strangled noise as one side of his face contorted with indignation. However when he spoke, his voice was even. Taking a large gulp of brandy, he began, "No, we were never engaged, although not for her lack of trying; when it became clear I had no intention nor desire to marry her, she moved elsewhere." He sighed, "You see, Christine, when I first arrived in London, I was a broken man. I had my commission to immerse myself in, but as it neared completion my despair returned and I adopted composing to alleviate my anguish. By this point I had gained a fair amount of renown and I had a couple of dalliances, believing them a remedy. I met Elizabeth shortly thereafter and I believed I had found a kindred spirit, she was fairly recently widowed and we connected over lost love. When her true motivation became apparent, I put a stop to it. That's when I realized that none of these women could fill the void and I devoted myself entirely to my work." he said guiltily, eagerly looking to see her reaction.

Though she was hurt and jealous, she had no choice but to forgive him. She was the one to blame for his heartbreak, she was the reason he was a shell, a fragment, of a person. Besides, who would she be to judge him? She had been married up until a week and a half ago, married to the man she chose over him. He had given her everything and she had forsaken him, _her teacher, her mentor, her one true friend. How she had cast him aside for a handsome, young face and some sweet words._ "Why didn't you tell me that you built the organ and the concert hall?" she asked tonelessly. He looked at her, his expression brightening a little more, "It never came up in conversation and I did not wish to tout my accomplishments."

He looked at her apprehensively, it was so rare to see his confidence waver, "It is my utmost hope that this newly acquired knowledge does not deter you from attending Lady Suffolk's dinner party as my companion." She shook her head, relishing in the satisfaction at having been called his companion. "Of course not, I look forward to it immensely." He smiled with genuine relief and elation, making her blush. "Excellent." was all that he said.


	8. Dinner at the Dowager's Pt I

**This was one of the chapters that I had written out by hand when it was slow at work. I typed bits and parts of it up and already it was at nearly 5,000 words, so I am finishing it as one and then splitting it up into two parts. I will post the other one immediately after so no worries about the sort of awkward continuation.**

 **Thanks so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites. I love getting feedback so please keep it coming!**

 **I do not own anything and any peerage titles used are coincidental. Enjoy! :)**

The days leading up to the dinner party were riddled with notes and unexpected calls from Annabelle and Christine found her friend's presence welcoming during the time when Erik was away. It was nice to have a friend. For a girl so young, Annabelle was extremely enterprising and it came as no surprise when, on the day of the party, she opened the door to find a smiling Dorothy clutching a large white box.

Christine rolled her eyes and brought the maid to her bedroom. She opened the box to find yet another of Annabelle's notes.

* * *

 _Dearest Christine,_

 _I hope you did not think I would leave you unprepared for this evening's party. I had this dress made to your measurements, I hope you find it pleasing._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Miss Annabelle Harland_

 _P.S. There is jewelry located under the dress._

* * *

The dress was every bit as amazing as the one she wore to Annabelle's ball. The rich lavender silk was only matched in splendor by the gilded embroidery and glass bead-work. The jewelry Annabelle had loaned her was comprised of a simple diamond necklace and matching diamond drop earrings. The maid completed her work, just as Mrs. Foley came in to announce Erik's arrival. "Heavens, child, your beauty is even more astounding than I remember." she said sweetly, accompanying Dorothy and Christine into the parlor.

Erik came in not ten minutes later, dressed in his evening clothes. He stopped short when he saw Christine, his jaw dropping, feeling foolish when he noticed the other two people in the room. _Would the depth of her beauty ever cease to leave him reeling?_ He cleared his throat, "Are you ready to depart?" She nodded, observing how well his suit fit, how nicely it complemented every angle of his body. Mrs. Foley couldn't help but smile watching the two of them interact. She had suspected something when he first brought her to the home, something in his insistence at not wishing to be alone with her. Now she saw it clearly, he was madly in love with her. She could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he moved around her; whereas it had just been an inkling the night of the symphony, now it was in full display. And judging from the girl's reactions, she returned his sentiment. _How long would these two continue to deny it?_

"Hello, Dorothy. I trust Annabelle sent you over?" Erik said, addressing the young maid. She nodded, her fiery hair bouncing wildly. "Well done you. I've arranged a carriage to return you to Harland House, it's too late for you to walk home. Elsie will take you down into the kitchen for a spot of dinner first." he added, looking at Mrs. Foley. The older woman walked out of the room, Dorothy trailing behind her after first thanking him.

Erik offered Christine his arm and she took it, together they walked through the front door and got into the waiting carriage. They set off in the usual silence. During the time they had spent together, Christine had found that he wasn't exceptionally talkative but tonight, he surprised her. Looking deeply into her eyes and placing a kiss on her hand, he had said, "Please allow me to tell you how stunning you look tonight." She thanked God that he could not see how red her cheeks were.

The home of Annabelle's great-aunt was every bit as impressive as that of the two siblings and as they pulled up to it, Christine had a sudden attack of nerves. _What would these people think of her?_ The symphony had been one thing as she was relatively isolated and Annabelle's ball was acceptable because she and her brother hosted it, but this party was another matter entirely. Dancing and idol conversation she could master, and although she had learned table etiquette while married to Raoul, his presence prevented any rudeness, she no longer had that luxury. No doubt the nobility would be quick to judge her shortcomings. She sighed and looked to the young blonde next to her in the carriage, trying to put her worries from mind.

She had confessed silent elation when a disheveled William had shown up at Erik's door just a few hours earlier, informing him that their horse had gone lame and his farrier wasn't due back in town until the next day. Naturally, Erik had offered their friends a ride and poured William a dram of scotch before sending the boy home to change. Now here they were, inside of the foyer, there was no turning back.

The foursome had followed the butler, Travers, into the drawing room. "Her Ladyship will be down in a moment." he said, bowing out of the room. The tension of Annabelle and her brother at the mention of their great-aunt did not escape Christine and she wondered if the woman was every bit as frightful as her friend claimed. As if on cue, the doors flew open and in came a very draconian old woman. She was very finely, if not puritanically, dressed in a green and black velvet evening gown. Despite her dour expression and creased face, Christine could tell she had once been as attractive as her niece.

She first greeted William fondly, then the woman turned to her grand-niece, "Annabelle, darling, congratulations on a successful entry into society, you were extremely well-received and I have heard word that you've a number of interested suitors of great position, no doubt they will begin calling on you soon." she said with an air of pride. Annabelle only nodded in reply and her great-aunt found her response satisfactory because she moved onto Erik.

"Monsieur Leroux, I am honored, I had hoped you would be in attendance, but I know how busy your work keeps you, especially with that month-long symphony project." Erik stood there stiffly but regarded her politely, "You are correct, Lady Suffolk, however I would not miss any chance to support your dear great-niece." he said curtly. The Dowager accepted his comment with a sense of smugness. It was clear she believed Erik to be one of Annabelle's suitors of "great position." _And why shouldn't he be? Aside from his tragically attained injury he was impressive, influential, wealthy, and well on his way to an enviable peerage. In addition, he was quite strapping in possession of a brilliant mind..._ thought the old woman.

Finally she faced Christine, "And Lady de Chagny, a delight to see you again as well." her tone contradicting the politeness of her words; she viewed Christine as an obstacle in the way of Erik courting Annabelle.

There was little additional conversation before the other party-goers had shown up and dinner began. Christine recognized several familiar faces including, to her displeasure, Elizabeth. She was seated at the end of the great banquet table in the company of the Dowager, some older ladies and gentlemen, the siblings, and Erik. She was between William and a balding, middle-aged man she didn't know; Erik and Annabelle were across from her.

As they were served the second course, Annabelle paused to throw a longing look at George, who was at the other end of the table. Her action did not go unnoticed by the Dowager's sharp eyes. "Lady Carlisle and I were talking only yesterday about the startling instance of young upstarts from non-established families courting girls above their station. I am of course, speaking generally..." she said, flashing her grand-niece a look of condemnation. Her comment was met with agreement from nearly everyone around them. "Oh, yes, I have always firmly believed that like should beget like, so to say." came a nasally voice to Christine's right. Its owner was a homely, mousy-haired woman with a large, beak-like nose.

"Well, I am pleased to say young Annabelle's coming out has been met with incredible praise. I am confident she will land an exceptional match just as I did; a Baron's daughter marrying an Earl's son. You are all familiar with my grand-niece?" she asked gesturing towards Annabelle, who looked to be on the verge of tears. The old woman took a sip of wine, obviously satisfied that her barb had achieved its purpose. Christine felt a wave of pity for her friend; perhaps being a perfect lady of society was with its faults. The remainder of dinner was uneventful, most of the conversation was directed at Erik concerning the concert hall, its current month-long exhibition, praise of his compositions, and inquiries into future productions.

After dessert, the men separated from the ladies to smoke, drink, and play cards. With William and Erik indisposed, she stuck close to Annabelle. "See? What did I tell you? She's ghastly." the blonde whispered as her great-aunt passed. Christine was having a surprisingly enjoyable time with Annabelle meeting several of her friends. The frivolity of the conversation was refreshing, giggling over this or that dress, lightly gossiping, and soppy daydreams over various handsome bachelors; adding to her gladness was the absence of any sign of Elizabeth.

The night only improved further when William, Erik, and several other gentlemen, most of whom had either lost out at cards or finished their cigars, rejoined them. She became acquainted with a few more people, among them the Viscount Hinton, Laurence Paulding, son of Earl Paulding. William had since been shepherded off by Reginald on business matters and she now found herself alone with Erik as Annabelle excused herself to listen to details of her friend, Lydia's honeymoon in France. "I hope you do not find this gathering too intolerable." Erik said in amusement. Christine shook her head and he smiled. She was about to ask him about his compositions and work. _How did he get the commission to build such a palatial concert hall? What did he have planned for this "month-long" program?_ There were so many questions she had for him, all of them jubilantly bouncing around in her head, dangling off her tongue at having been realized.

"Monsieur Leroux, back so soon? Have you bad luck at cards?" said the voice of the Dowager, having sneaked up on the pair. Erik didn't seem fazed, "I'm afraid I do not often indulge in such activities, Lady Suffolk. I would like to say my reservations are rooted morally, but in truth I am not very skilled and I value my money over my pride." he replied, smiling politely, though Christine could see the hint of irritation in his eyes. The old woman let out a laugh, "If only these other fools possessed your wisdom, then entire fortunes would not be lost at the table." she said approvingly. It was obvious she wanted something from the way she stood there, but what Christine did not yet know.

"At any rate, I did not walk over here to intrude on your conversation, my boy. I was only wondering if I could discuss the matter of Lord Suffolk's hunting lodge; I intend it as a wedding gift for my grandson. I have already spoken to Sir Norton on the subject. What a shame it is that he has spent the better half of a year on the continent." she said as if leading up to something. "Of course. Yes, but such is a solicitor's job to handle business transactions, I trust he should return shortly; in his correspondence, he mentioned the deal was almost brokered." Erik replied. Christine's heart seized. _What deal was he talking about?_ "Quite right. Now, let us find somewhere more fitting, this room is much too loud." Erik gave Christine an apologetic look and walked away, offering the old woman his arm to steady her. So, this was her purpose, separating the two of them. She wasn't astonished and she bitterly browsed the crowd for any sign of her other friends.

Little did she know, the night was destined to take an even worse turn. "Lady de Chagny!" She recognized he voice almost immediately and turned to see none other than Elizabeth approaching, flanked by two woman that appeared equally as unpleasant. Christine knew escape was futile so she gritted her teeth and braced for the inevitable. "Lady de Chagny, what a pleasure to see you again." Elizabeth's words were sickeningly sweet but carried a hint of poison. "Allow me to introduce Miss Caroline Haxby and Lady Margaret Fulton. Lady Margaret is engaged to marry Lord Robert Gordon, Earl of Melfort." she said gesturing to the long-faced brunette on her left. Christine gave a fake smile, "How wonderful! My congratulations!" she said hollowly. Elizabeth returned the smile, "Caroline was just saying what a wonderful dancer you are, she saw you and Monsieur Leroux waltzing at dear Annabelle's ball." The tall, copper-haired woman to her right nodded. "Yes, you are ever so graceful, your governess must be proud." she said, eyeing Christine perniciously.

"I've never had a governess." she responded honestly and without thought, instantaneously regretting her reply. "Never had a governess?" Lady Margaret chimed in incredulously, her shrill voice echoing inside Christine's head. "My dear, were you not married to a Vicomte?" asked Elizabeth, who was positively glowing with satisfaction. "Married to a Vicomte without ever having had a governess, how absurdly unusual!" remarked Caroline. "My word, the French way is so strange... However did you learn to curtsy, dance, and stitch?" Elizabeth asked, feigning curiosity. "I was raised by my father until his death, whereupon I was taken by a family friend, a ballet mistress, to live in the ballet dormitories of a local opera house, where I trained for ten years." Christine said, past caring what these horrible women thought of her, she just wanted to escape the situation.

This was too much for the three friends and they all giggled malevolently, "How scandalous! A Vicomte married to a ballet rat, have you ever heard such a thing?" Caroline chimed wickedly. "How strange it is for Monsieur Leroux, a famed composer, to keep company with such a non-musical mistress as yourself. I assume you do not play given you've never had a governess?" asked Elizabeth viciously; she knew this would be the nail in the coffin and savored the moment. Christine shook her head, trying to hold back tears, "I'm afraid I do not..." Elizabeth smiled virulently, ready to deliver the death blow when a familiar petite blonde popped up beside them.

Annabelle sighed theatrically, "This party is sorely lacking in enjoyable conversation. When I saw all the commotion, I thought I would come over and see what topic is so thrilling." Elizabeth's smile vanished instantly and Christine thanked God for her friend's timely intervention. "We were discussing how peculiar it is for a composer to be involved with someone with no appreciation for the art." Elizabeth restated, glaring at Annabelle. "Oh my, it is indeed! Whomever are you referring to? Surely not Lady de Chagny, she is quite an accomplished singer." Elizabeth could now barely contain her fury, "Is that so? She made no mention. I, for one, should very much like to hear." she spat evilly. "Yes, that would be lovely, Elizabeth." Caroline said. They were trying their best to call Annabelle's bluff and Christine was afraid they had become cornered once again.

To her amazement, Annabelle smiled dazzlingly and turned to her, "Well, what do you say Christine, shall we indulge these fine ladies?"


	9. Dinner at the Dowager's Pt II

**Sorry about that break, but it was threatening to become a novel. I think this part will be very pleasurable read, _frustrating_ , but pleasurable. ;) **

**Something actually sort of starts to happen, yay! Erik and Christine seem to be getting along quite nicely. But will it last? You'll have to continue reading to find out...**

 **I searched high and low for a fitting song and rifled through arias and folk songs, until realizing how perfect Wagner's, _Tristan und Isolde_ was. I am so glad to have found something that fits in so beautifully. **

Before Christine had time to process what was occurring, Annabelle had linked arms with her and was dragging her into the great hall, where a stately grand piano sat. "What are you doing?" she hissed at the girl through her teeth, her action only made Annabelle smile wider. "Those women are beastly and I have the perfect plan to put them in their rightful places." her friend whispered back. "Trust me." she added, noting Christine's worried look. "I have the perfect song for you, well it is technically a harmony, but one can sing it." Christine looked at her in horror. "Song?" she repeated quietly, as if she had never before heard that word.

Annabelle didn't reply, she was too busy rummaging around in the piano bench for her quarry. Christine was at a loss, she hadn't sang in two years. She would have found it a convenient relief if Raoul _had_ disallowed it, but in truth, she had lost all desire when she said her tearful farewell to her Angel. "Here," her friend said thrusting some sheet music into her hands, "Erik not only transcribed it for me on piano, but he also translated it into English from the original German. It was a birthday present. You can read enough English to know the words?" Christine gave a nod, it seemed she was in a hypnotized state. "Marvelous!" Annabelle exclaimed, beginning to play.

Christine tried to protest but to no avail. What happened next was purely instinctual, and seemed to her a reflex as normal as breathing. As the music neared her part, her voice issued forth, independent of her control. _I don't sound that out of practice..._ she thought. At once the room lurched into complete silence and all of the heads turned to listen.

Erik was in the middle of his conversation with the Dowager when they first heard the piano. He recognized the musician and the piece at once, but his companion was slower. "That sounds like my niece." said the old woman. "Yes, I believe it is. Now what did you have in mind in regards to adding the second wing?" he asked dismissively, eager to finish the conversation and return to Christine. That's when he heard it, a lofty, melodic sound that he hadn't heard in… "Excuse me." he said, quickly exiting the room. He reached the great hall and all the air was sucked out of his lungs.

There, standing next to the piano was Christine, the spectacular beauty of her voice echoing around the room. He was so transfixed that he paid no heed to the tumultuous surge of feelings provoked by that voice. They swirled all around him, choking him, threatening to engulf him, and he was completely powerless to resist. William and Reginald's arrival next to him was a welcomed distraction. "Is that my sister playing?" asked William. "Good God, is that Christine, _your Christine_ , singing, Erik?" inquired Reginald, clearly flabbergasted. Erik could only nod in reply, for something else was now rising in his gut, an unquenchable urge.

He walked towards her enraptured—he was totally under her spell, could control himself no longer—and felt his voice rise and mingle with hers.

* * *

 _O eternal Night,_  
 _sweet Night!_  
 _Gloriously sublime_  
 _Night of love!_  
 _Those whom you have embraced,_  
 _upon whom you have smiled,_  
 _how could they ever waken_  
 _without fear?_  
 _Now banish dread,_  
 _sweet death,_  
 _yearned for, longed for_  
 _death-in-love!_  
 _In your arms,_  
 _consecrated to you,_  
 _sacred elemental quickening force,_  
 _free from the peril of waking!_  
 _How to grasp it,_  
 _how to leave it,_  
 _this bliss_  
 _far from the sun's,_  
 _far from Day's_  
 _parting sorrows!_  
 _Free from delusion_  
 _gentle yearning,_  
 _free from fearing_  
 _sweet longing._  
 _Free from sighing_  
 _sublime expiring._  
 _Free from languishing_  
 _enclosed in sweet darkness._  
 _No evasion_  
 _no parting,_  
 _just we alone,_  
 _ever home,_  
 _in unmeasured realms_  
 _of ecstatic dreams._

* * *

The harmony of their voices, a shared melody, entwined. She immediately looked up when she heard him, shock resonating in every feature on her face, and yet her voice came forth unaffected. Their eyes met, melding together, and she gave herself completely over to the music, his music. He was fixated on her, the only person in the room: _her,_ his sole destination—as he continued towards her in measured strides. She was relieving _Don Juan Triumphant_ and one look from him revealed the same. The raw sensual power of his voice caressing, rather than dominating, the demure vocal purity of hers; its deep, enticing melancholy was the darkness, her heavenly, bewitching divinity was the light, and together they combined to make something beautiful. Each note, each word bringing them closer to that inevitable finale… Sweet release resounded as they, as one, hit the final note.

Their eyes remained locked even after they had finished, both of them breathing heavily, deaf to the applause that surrounded them. Each of their minds engaged in an uphill struggle to fully comprehend what had just happened. They stared on, each wanting to close the distance between them and relent to the secure serenity to be found in the arms of the other. Christine raised her foot to take the first step but was torn away and out of her stupor by Annabelle, who tugged her into a deserted corner.

She looked at Christine, an expression somewhere between hurt and surprise painted on her small face, "You never told me you were professionally trained in opera!" she said. Christine looked at her for a moment and sighed, "Before Raoul and I married, I was a ballerina in an opera house. We had been childhood loves had lost touch when my father died and I was taken to live in the ballet dormitories by my an old friend of my father who happened to be the ballet mistress. Raoul became a patron of the opera house and I was discovered as a singer when the diva quit. That's actually how Raoul and I were reunited…" she began, soon launching into the entire story of the Opera Populaire and the Phantom, omitting the part about him and Erik being one in the same.

She had barely concluded her tale when Annabelle let out a loud sigh, "I wish my life was that exciting, it's like a Regency novel; if only I had such a fervent admirer. Really, Christine, you make him sound so Shakespearean." The girl let out a giggle, "O Romeo, Romeo, Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" she teased.

"Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?" sounded a deep voice Christine recognized immediately. Both girls spun around simultaneously; there stood Erik wearing a bemused look and holding a scotch, the light casting shadows against his mask. "It is incredibly rude to creep so quietly when others are in conversation, sir." Annabelle stated in annoyance. Erik winked at them, "I do so apologize for interrupting your lesson in Shakespearean tragedy, Annabelle. Please forgive me, I only came to congratulate your fine playing and give warning that Miss Elizabeth Webley-Hawkins and her friends have cornered poor William; suffice it to say he could use rescuing."

She issued what sounded suspiciously like a swear under her breath, muttered her thanks, and set off to find her brother, leaving Christine and Erik alone. They stayed momentarily silent for neither knew quite what to say. She wanted to apologize to her teacher for allowing her voice to deteriorate, but he spoke first, "'O sink' hernieder, Nacht der Liebe' from Wagner's, _Tristan und Isolde_ , Act II, Scene II; an unusual soloist choice, given it's a harmony." he said, sounding amused rather than angry. She was thankful.

"It was Annabelle's choice, my hands were tied." He laughed, "Yes, she can be incredibly determined." Christine smiled lightly, "I heard you transcribed the song on piano and translated it to English especially for her." she said. "I transcribed and translated the entire opera for her, not just the one song. Her father took her to the premiere when she was just a girl; she adores it. It's curious, I was always under the impression that she favored Isolde's 'Liebestod.' Annabelle has always rather fancied whirlwind Wagnerian romantic drama." he replied, unable to shake the girl's bold assertion during the previous week's ball. _I'm quite sure your love is mutual,_ she had said. Was it? _No, that was impossible, his love for her had left him long ago._

"You haven't sang since…?" he flashed her a look of apprehension. "No." she returned simply, looking down at her hands with shame. "Nor have I." he said softly. "Did _he_ forbid it?" he asked, not bothering to hide the contempt with which he referred to her late husband. She shook her head, "After the opera … _closed_ , my desire to sing followed. It was almost as if the music had left my soul." she said softly, wringing her hands. He stepped forward automatically, taking her hand in his, stroking it. Her body tensed as her eyes jerked upwards to meet his. _Was she blushing?_ He couldn't tell in this light.

She couldn't decode his expression with which he looked at her. "Christine…" he began, but the rest of his words were lost to a jovial, booming voice. It belonged to a finely-dressed, round, old man moving towards the pair. He released her hand quickly. "Erik, my boy!" he said, clapping the younger man firmly on the back. She stood there, frozen with fear and shock, _did this old fool just dare to smack the Phantom?_ She dreaded what his reaction might be. Her surprise only increased when Erik smiled and turned to the man, "Lord Howe." he said, greeting him with mock-seriousness.

"Dear boy, I knew you were a composer but I had no idea you could sing. And this exquisite little flower you've found, her voice is angelic." he stated, regarding Christine with a wave of his large hand. "Thank you, sir." she said modestly, looking back at her hands and blushing with the compliment. He gave her a wide, genuine smile, his crinkled grey eyes lighting up fondly from within his ruddy face; with his large white mustache he bore a striking resemblance to a walrus. He turned to Erik, "Well, aren't you going to introduce us?" he more demanded than asked. "Lady Christine de Chagny, widow of the late Vicomte. Christine, this is my good friend, Lord Richard Howe, Marquess of Tweeddale." he obliged.

The old man nodded somberly, "Oh, my dear, I am incredibly sorry. I believe I read about his death in the paper." Fear took her at once, squeezing her stomach in a vice-like grip. If anybody found out about Raoul's death, about her lack of mourning, she would be a pariah, dragging Erik and her friends down with her. _Not even a month had passed for God's sake! What was she doing? Did she think she could continue this charade indefinitely?_ "Yes, killed in the Paris Commune last year, what an immeasurable tragedy. I do not blame you in the least for fleeing such turmoil for England's safety." he said giving her a pitying look. She nodded sadly, feeling terrible for allowing this lie to flourish.

Lord Howe turned to Erik, "I did not walk over her solely to offer praise of your voice, my boy. Would you mind terribly if I steal you away from your lady briefly?" he asked, looking at her for approval. "Of course. I was just about to seek out Miss Harland, anyways." she replied. The man turned back to Erik, "Splendid! Now as you know my nephew is quite the entrepreneur and has recently acquired an opera house. I was wondering if you could provide your professional opinion regarding the acoustics…" She remained in place for a moment, listening to the old man's sonorous voice trail off as he and Erik walked away. It was heartwarming to see him so well-respected and finally receiving the appreciation he deserved.

It did not take Christine long to locate Annabelle, the young girl appeared upset and was chattering angrily to her brother. "I hope I'm not intruding." said Christine meekly. Her friend's demeanor changed rapidly when she heard the older girl, "Not at all. Probably better to end the conversation before I say something too uncouth." Annabelle said smiling brightly. William nodded, "Christine, you have a magnificent voice. Annabelle was telling me you trained in opera; it shows." he too, smiled.

"Oh, Christine, look it's, George! And he appears to be coming towards us!" Annabelle squealed, clutching Christine's arm with a vice-like strength. At times like these, Annabelle reminded Christine so much of her best friend, Meg Giry. Christine looked into the crowd to see that George was indeed strolling toward them, his lopsided smile and boyish face hard to miss. "Christine, do you mind terribly?" Annabelle asked, the giddiness in her voice evident. Christine let out a small giggle, "Not at all, Annabelle, go enjoy yourself! I was going to get another glass of wine anyways." As soon as the words had left her lips, Annabelle gave her an impish smile and scampered off in the direction of the young man. William smirked at Christine, grabbing her arm as she passed him, "It's a good thing I invited him or else the evening would be a total disappointment." he whispered to her.

She couldn't help but smile. Christine sighed, it was so refreshing to see a pair of young people so infatuated with one another. She stood there waiting and was soon indulged by a young footman carrying glasses of champagne.

"How is it, my dear, that a gem such as yourself is left alone?" A man whom had been introduced to her earlier as the Lord Hinton, spoke. He flashed an elegant smile and placed a soft kiss on the back of her gloved hand. "Would you like me to show you the spectacular view of the gardens? I'm quite sure Monsieur Leroux will know where to find us."

Christine nodded and wished Erik would soon return to her, she had decided that the English nobility was just as terribly snobbish as they were in France. She felt awkward among these people, however she did not want to appear reclusive, so she followed the Viscount out to the balcony. He seemed harmless enough, a bit of a dandy, but friendly.

He turned to her, "Is the view not one of the most splendid ones you have seen?" She smiled in response and peered out over the balcony, drinking in the stately rose bushes, winding paths, hedges, and variety of flowers. "It is very beautiful, I've found English gardens to be elegantly done." she replied, turning to face him. "Pardon me for my forwardness, but a garden such as this holds no contest to your own great beauty or that of your voice. Yes, you seem to be a young woman with a great many talents, it is no wonder Monsieur Leroux likes to keep your company." He smiled, moving a little closer to her. Something had changed in his eyes but she couldn't decide what it was...

Suddenly, he seized her forcefully and began kissing her. Christine tried to push him away but he had her pinned between the railing and his body. She pummeled his arms and shoulders with her fists but it only made him kiss her more savagely. He seemed to delight in her struggle and soon his hands were snaking their way up her body. Finally she managed to get her arm free and slapped him across the cheek with as much force as she could muster. He paused for a second and then the entire right side of her face felt like it was alight and she tasted blood. It took her a moment to realize he had slapped her.

Laurence then noticed Erik's imposing form standing in the doorway. He let out a dark chuckle as he felt the other man approach behind him, "I was just showing your companion the view of the gardens…" Christine saw Erik's eyes flash dangerously. As she rubbed her cheek she saw him clench his jaw and ball his fists so hard his knuckles went white. Christine knew what would happen next and shut her eyes tightly.

Laurence did not notice these warnings, he was preoccupied with adjusting his jacket and fixing his hair. He offered Erik a cheeky grin as he walked toward the doors, "I have to say, your little slut is quite the devilish minx, it's no wonder why you keep her around, Leroux. When you grow bored of her, feel free to allow me a few tur—" Laurence was interrupted when Erik's fist made contact with his jaw. There was a sickening crunch and he crumpled to the stone floor.

"Christine." When she opened her eyes Erik was standing in front of her holding out his handkerchief. She took it gratefully and dabbed her lip. He said nothing more, only grabbed her gently by the wrist and led her through the doors back into the drawing room, where people were still mingling energetically. Nobody seemed to notice them passing through and Christine could not locate Annabelle or William in the crowd. They wound through the lower level of the house until they had reached the front door, where the butler was waiting. "Would you like me to order your carriage brought round, Mister Leroux?" he asked, slightly confused by the spectacle before him. Christine managed a sheepish smile in his direction.

"Yes, Travers. Please make sure you do not let the lady out of your sight and be sure to lock the carriage door behind her. I have a matter to discuss with Lord Harland. Keep my driver waiting, I shan't be long." And he strode off purposefully back into the house.

Christine had just gotten settled in the carriage when the door opened and Erik climbed in. He tapped the roof and the driver set off back to his residence. Not a word was spoken the entire ride back and she wondered if she had done something to anger him. She looked at him but his head was turned to look out the window, his expression unreadable. Surely he did not think that she was privy to the kiss with Laurence.

When they arrived at his house, he took her hand and helped her from the carriage. To her surprise, he did not let go but instead gently guided her through the foyer and into his study. He ushered her into the room and walked out. He reappeared momentarily, sans jacket, carrying something wrapped in a towel, he walked past her to the handsome cabinet, and returned to her position carrying two snifters of brandy. She sat down on the sofa and he took the seat next to her. He placed the towel to her cheek and she took it from him realizing there was ice wrapped in it.

"Forgive me, Christine. I should never have left you unattended, Lord Hinton has quite a reputation, but I did not think him that impudent. I know it is considered improper for a lady of your stature to partake, but I thought given the circumstances..." his voice was quiet, and for the first time in memory she sensed he was unsure. He managed a slight smile and offered her a snifter as he fumbled with his cravat.

She accepted it thankfully and took a large swig, coughing, as her eyes watered from the strength of the drink. "Oh, Erik. I am relieved, I was afraid you were angry with me… that you had assumed I had somehow encouraged his advances." she said blushing and looking at her lap.

He let out a small laugh while removing his vest. "Christine, you do me quite a disservice. Besides, I would hope you to have more refined tastes than the likes of that reprobate scoundrel. Honestly, how are you, though?" Despite the concern in his voice, his eyes barely masked a cold fury.

"Better now…" she countered, taking another large sip. "I daresay I cannot quite say the same for our friend, Lord Hinton."

To her shock, Erik grinned. "May I…?" he coaxed, encompassing her hand with his and gingerly moving it downward. He lifted her chin and turned her face so that she was staring into his eyes, his hand swept upward to stroke her cheek but their eyes remained locked. In the soft light his eyes were the color of lapis lazuli... The moment seemed to linger as they moved closer to one another, the intensity of his gaze leaving her breathless. Christine barely noticed his hand still cradling her jaw or his eyes slowly close as hers followed, entranced. She felt the faint heat of his breath as he moved in to kiss her. A dizzying jolt passed through her entire body as their lips first touched; she longed to give into the strange feeling but any hopes of that were interrupted as the doors to the study flew open with a loud bang.

Both she and Erik immediately jumped in alarm and she observed a fleeting look of ferocity burning in his eyes before he realized it was William who stood in the doorway. The boy's cheeks were flushed but she could not tell if it was because he had seen them or that he had run into the room. "Forgive me for not knocking, I hope I'm not intruding..." he mumbled looking at the floor apologetically. In truth, William had seen the brief kiss and silently kicked himself for barging in. Although he was young, even he could feel the unexpressed tension between the two; his sister had been completely right. Countless times he had seen the way they looked at each other, despite his friend's vehement denial.

"Not at all, William, I was expecting you." said Erik, rising from the sofa and sweeping his dark hair back. William looked at Christine, pretending not to see the blush that tinged her pale cheeks, the one side redder and angrier than the other. "Christine, are you alright? Erik told me everything." he asked worriedly. She nodded and he was calmer. "I am glad to hear. Annabelle begged to come but I told her it was too late, I will pass the news onto her. Although, I suspect you will get a visit tomorrow, nonetheless." he smiled and she couldn't help but join him at the thought of Annabelle.

Erik looked at William and offered him a snifter as well, "Well, what is the damage, Harland?" he asked, unapologetic. The younger man took the glass, "Lord Hinton will survive, but he has a long recovery ahead, I expect." William said, taking a pensive sip. "How unfortunate..." Erik replied acerbically. "Good God, man! You were hardly required to break his jaw. You are lucky you didn't kill the poor bastard. " William scolded, seeing his friend's lack of guilt. Christine could not believe he would address Erik in such a manner, especially when he was already in a mood. "I was hardly required to, but I did so, nevertheless. And, you are right, dear chap, I probably _should_ have murdered him." countered Erik sardonically. Christine knew it to be true and was also surprised that Erik hadn't killed Laurence for the latter's misdeed.

William laughed, seeing admonishing Erik as an uphill battle, "I suppose we should not expect his presence at the second exhibition in a couple days time?" Christine looked at the both of them, completely lost. "Second exhibition?" she asked in confusion. Erik gave her a fond look, "Never you mind that now, I will explain everything you need to know tomorrow after you've had some rest." Though his tone was gentle, she could discern that his statement was non-negotiable. She ascended the stairs, bidding them both a good night. She paused to listen on the landing as Erik escorted William to the door, "I hope we should not, or I will be sure to kill him." She heard him say.


	10. A Shocking Discovery

**I hope the previous chapter was enjoyable, because things are about to get a little rocky. The next few chapters will be very action packed and maybe even a little sad; just be prepared!**

 **Remember the verbose rant I went on a few chapters back? Well, this is the beginning of that internal conflict I mentioned, it will come to a head in the next chapter.**

 **I'm out of things to say... ;) Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. I do not own anything.**

The next day barely seemed to shake the cloak of darkness from the previous night, almost no light broke through the thick gray clouds and any that did was quickly washed away by the torrential rain. Christine spent most of it in bed, her cheek was still tender and the bleak weather filled her with a certain laziness. Furthermore, she still felt faint after the short kiss they had shared the previous night. Mrs. Foley did not mind in the least and treated her like a small child who had taken ill, bringing her breakfast, luncheon, and tea in bed.

As foreshadowed by William, Annabelle showed up a little past noon, bringing Christine some of her favorite novels and some sweets. She now sat on the edge of the bed. "Christine, I cannot even begin to imagine… What a dastardly thing! I'm sorry, if I hadn't left you alone." she said guiltily looking at her lap. Christine let out a small giggle, "Annabelle, honestly, don't be so dramatic! You are blameless. Besides, you didn't leave me alone, William was still there when you left and then I walked off to get another glass of wine. I never thought Lord Hinton would be so bold; I mean his father is perfectly respectable, I danced with him at the ball." she said in an attempt to comfort her friend.

It appeared to have worked because soon Annabelle was back to her normal spritely self. She gave Christine an impish look, "I heard Erik's dashing rescue was quite romantic…" she said slyly and Christine was surprised to find her cheeks feeling hot. _Why was it that even hearing his name made her blush?_ "Truthfully, I did not see him hit Lord Hinton; I closed my eyes, I was afraid…" she trailed off distractedly. _Would Erik have really killed him?_ He seemed a changed man, seemed to have left his past behind.

"…afraid you would swoon over your gallant knight?" Annabelle finished for her, glowing with mischief. Christine rolled her eyes, "Oh, stop, will you? Honestly, there's nothing between us, unlike yourself and Mr. Wallenby…" she said, eager to change the subject. Thankfully, Annabelle took the bait and spent the next hour fawning over George, much to Christine's relief. After the girl had exhausted herself, there was a small pause. "He kissed me on the cheek last night and asked if he could see me more often." she whispered in quiet disbelief. "Oh, Annabelle, that's wonderful! Now who is the one with the gallant knight?" Christine teased. Her friend did not smile, but frowned, "Not if my godawful great-aunt has any say in it." she answered gloomily.

When the conversation had ended, Annabelle excitedly pulled out one of the novels she had brought. Christine knew enough to make out the title, _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. "I know you are probably not yet comfortable enough with the language to read an entire novel in English, there are French translations but I've heard they are abysmal. I will read it to you, if you find that satisfactory. My mother used to read to me _before…_ This is one of my favorites." Christine nodded and the girl began to read with a squeal of delight.

Both her and Annabelle took their afternoon tea in the bedroom; Christine listening to each word intently as her friend read on. They had reached the fourth chapter when the door opened and Erik walked in, his expression of surprise almost comical at seeing Annabelle in the room with her. "Annabelle, I had not expected you would still be here, it's almost supper time. You are, of course, welcome to stay. I will go tell Elsie to set another place." he said, backing out of the doorway. Annabelle quickly jumped to her feet, "No need! I had no idea how late it was, I don't want to keep William waiting. I shall see you tomorrow, at the symphony. Christine, feel free to borrow the novels, I've read them all. I will call on you later in the week perhaps." she said, rushing out of the door past a bewildered Erik.

"Oh, and Christine, I left you something else downstairs, I hope you enjoy it." she added hastily. They looked at one another, each of them wearing the same look of puzzlement. Erik's brow was still raised when he walked fully into the room and pulled the vanity chair up to her bedside. "She's acting rather strangely." he said picking up the novel Annabelle had left behind, "Ah, I see she has been filling your head with Austen's doleful sentiment." he continued with a chuckle.

"How are you today? Elsie informed me you haven't been out of bed." he asked anxiously. She reached out and put her hand on his, "Worry not! It's just the weather. Now, tell me about this symphony. A promise should always be kept and seeing as how it is tomorrow, I believe I am entitled to information of some kind." she said teasingly, unsure how he would react. He smirked, "If my lady commands…" _His lady?_ She bit her lip shamefully as she realized how much she wanted to be his in every sense of the word. _How could she have such thoughts when she should be in mourning?_

He too felt incredibly foolish. _Why had he referred to her as such?_ True, he could no longer deny he wanted nothing more from this life but he would not let himself completely succumb to his feelings, he could never give himself completely to her as he once had done; that part of him was damaged beyond repair. "Since this is the grand re-opening of the concert hall, Reginald and I thought the best way to maintain public interest would be to have a month-long program featuring Joseph Haydn's, London symphonies. There are twelve individual compositions spread out over three dates and each night will feature four of his symphonies in total. The second set, symphonies 97-100, will be showcased tomorrow evening, and I would very much enjoy your presence, permitted you feel well enough to attend." he said slowly, waiting for her response.

"I would love to!" came the reply a little too enthusiastically. She smiled sheepishly, "Are you going to be…?" she started, "Conducting? Fortunately, no. The conductor has made a full recovery and will be filling his usual post. Meanwhile, I will take my place in my box. Why do you ask? Did you enjoy my absence so much the last time?" he finished her question playfully. "Oh, no. Not at all!"

He smiled and stood up, "It was a jest, Christine. Will you take your supper in bed as well?" he asked, walking in the direction of the door. "No need. I will come down." He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and was halfway through the door when he added, "It appears you needn't worry about dressing yourself, our dear Annabelle has taken care of that, judging from the box she left in the parlor."

"Oh, I wish she would stop; it's unnecessary." she said, burying her head in her knees. He gave a hearty chuckle, "May you have the best of luck in your endeavor, truly…" he said cheekily, closing the door behind him.

Erik was up as the sun timidly rose in the morning sky and tucked into his breakfast, pleased that the weather had improved. He finished his plate, folded the newspaper, and prepared to leave when an unkempt Mrs. Foley ran right into him. "What has you in such a frenzy, Elsie?" raising his brow. She looked up at him in fearful apology, "Begging your pardon, sir, I should've been looking, but this came for you, said it was urgent." she said rapidly, handing him the envelope.

His mood changed at once as he read the name on the back, indicating whom had sent it. "Thank you. Is that all?" he asked moodily. The maid shook her head, wondering how a name could cause such displeasure. "Very well. I will send my carriage to collect Madame de Chagny at seven o'clock sharp, please ensure she is punctual." Not waiting for a response, he walked outside and slammed the door behind him.

Predictably, Dorothy came by a couple of hours in advance to ready Christine. This evening's dress was a marvelous olive color with a golden sheen. She felt a sting of guilt for the way she allowed her friend to spoil her and she resolved to get Annabelle something of equal finery in return. Though his carriage arrived at exactly seven, he was not in it. Mrs. Foley had explained that he was incredibly busy with the night's preparations and would meet her there. Nevertheless, Christine still found it strange and wondered if something had upset him.

She was greeted by William and Annabelle upon exiting the carriage. "Oh, Christine, I was right in my color choice. Doesn't it look lovely on her, William?" The latter glanced at her shyly and nodded, obviously uncomfortable. "Erik and Reginald are already seated, they sent us to intercept you." he said changing the subject. Although she returned their smiles, she couldn't shake the feeling from earlier. She took a deep breath and forced it from her mind, she wasn't about to cast a pall over the entire evening just because he hadn't picked her up or met her at the door. He was a man of success and had his own matters to handle.

Once they had reached their box, Christine looked around anxiously, there sat Reginald but there was no sign of Erik. Reginald turned around as soon as they walked in, eyeing Christine with a hint of apprehension. She took the seat one over from him, leaving an empty one between them. He leaned over, "Do not fret, my dear. Erik will be along shortly, he had some affairs to get in order before the start of the performance."

 _What was going on?_ "Say, dear girl, have you any idea if he received bad news by post or if anything happened to upset our friend?" he asked nervously. She shook her head, "He took his leave before I came down, Colonel Crawford. Is everything alright?" He clicked his tongue thoughtfully, "Yes, yes, only he has been in a state all day. At first I thought it was the mess with Lord Hinton two nights ago, but now I am not so sure. He came in today carrying a letter, do you know anything ab—"

"Forgive me if my untimely arrival has disrupted your conversation; I trust it was enthralling. Now if I may take my seat?" Erik said, his tone indicating that he had heard every exchange between them. Neither Christine nor Reginald said anything as Erik sat down. "Perhaps someplace affording more privacy next time, dear friends. You never know who could be eavesdropping." he suggested coldly.

She didn't know why she expected the start of the symphony would ease his mood, but she was to be disappointed. He scowled in silence for the entirety of the performance, disappearing during intermission and returning after the symphony had resumed.

When the stage darkened and everybody began to exit, Christine paused and waited for him. "Is there something you require, Madame?" he asked, the formality with which he addressed her left her stunned and hurt. "I…I was just waiting for you." she stammered, throwing him a pleading look. She was met only the cold aloofness he now seemed to radiate, "That is quite an unnecessary gesture. I have business here that requires my attention, I do not expect to be in before midnight."

"Erik…" she implored urgently. The way in which she said his name caught him unaware, his glaciated eyes thawed for a fleeting second, and he longed to pull her close, to reassure her that she had caused none of this. _No, for that he was unequivocally responsible._ He pushed his sentiment from mind with considerable pain and quashed his fruitless longing, resuming his stony facade. It could never be and _he_ had been the one to insure that, he bitterly recounted. "I am sure Colonel Crawford or Lord Harland would be more than willing to escort you to your carriage. Now, I must take my leave."

She stayed behind even after she could no longer hear his footsteps, her disbelief holding onto her like a trance. _How could his demeanor have changed so radically? What had she done to anger him so?_ She had thought things between them had improved, blossomed even, but now she was faced with a radical decline, the suddenness of which caught her out. She stayed there until Reginald had come in, silently taking her by the arm and putting her into Erik's carriage. "Be not alarmed, he sometimes has his moods but they almost always are quick to pass." he said encouragingly, not believing his own words.

Christine closed her eyes and tried to force herself to relax, to coax her body into sleep, but it was to no avail. As she listened to a clock chime midnight in the distance, she sat up and sighed. After all that had happened the past couple of weeks—arriving in London only to be assaulted and witness her husband's death, Erik, her Angel, coming back into her life, the night at the symphony, Annabelle's debutante ball, that powerful song between them at the dinner party, the dinner party where Erik had chivalrously come to her aid, the fleeting kiss they shared that same night, and now the distance that had crept between them overnight—how could she be expected to ease her mind? She slid off the edge of the bed and managed to feel out the dressing robe Mrs. Foley had laid out on her vanity chair.  
As she tied the robe, she heard her stomach utter a feeble growl, perhaps Mrs. Foley had left out some tea cakes as a snack. She gently opened her bedroom door, walked down the hall, and made her way down the stairs, careful not to make noise. Christine reached the landing and paused, she heard men's voices and saw the door to Erik's study was slightly ajar.

She heard Erik's voice, fraught with agitation, and another man's voice she did not recognize; they were in a heated discussion. Quietly, Christine leaned over the railing so that she could hear better, in her mind the voice of her old ballet mistress, Madame Giry, was quite clear, telling her it was unbecoming to listen in. She smiled at the recollection of her old life at the Opera Populaire but she resumed her focus at the slamming of a cabinet door.

"And you are absolutely sure, Cartwright?"

"Undoubtedly, sir. It appears that he has lingered for all this time, although, I believe death would be a blessing at this point…"

She heard Erik sigh heavily and detected his disappointment and bitterness. "Then she must be made aware and taken to him so that he may spend his last hours at peace."

"I heartily disagree with you... Given the lady's recent traumas, this would surely put her over the edge."

Erik answered with a quite firmness, "She must know, so is her right."

"Sir! I must protest! That is no environment for a lady, you will offend her sensibilities, cause her frail heart to break…" came the other man's gruff voice.

"Frankly, I do not give a damn what you think! You do not know her and you do her immense disservice by underestimating her. It is the right thing for her to be brought to him and that is final." Erik countered angrily.

She heard the man's hesitation as he bowed to the steely authority of Erik's voice. He must have known it was pointless to argue. "Fine, fine. However, let my disagreement with your decision be noted. I will arrange for you to visit tomorrow morning, I cannot imagine the Vicomte has much time, given what the doctors have said."

Christine clapped a small hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. The man called Cartwright had clearly said "Vicomte." That meant that Raoul, that her husband, was somehow still alive and on the cusp of death. A sickness ravaged her and left her feeling incredibly faint. All this time she had not even asked after Raoul, believing him—no, wishing—him to be dead. The truth was that she had been so glad to be reunited with Erik, to be given a second chance without having to break Raoul's heart, that she hadn't paused to consider that he could have survived; she had been quick to trade one man's life for another when she found Erik to be alive and thought Raoul gone. All at once, the previously repressed feelings of guilt, disappointment, and fear coursed through her, smothering her. Christine wanted to vomit, to be smote down next to the loving husband whose thought she had abandoned, she deserved as much, but she composed herself long enough to hear the end of the conversation.

After a long pause, she heard Erik's voice again, his tone of saddened defeat unmistakable, "Very well. I will accompany the lady tomorrow morning so she may say her farewells and be at her husband's side."

"I will meet you at the hospital at half past nine. Now, if you'll excuse me, Monsieur Leroux, I will take my leave; it is quite late."

"Yes, of course... would you like me to show you to the door, Assistant Commissioner?" She could now hear the weariness etched in every word he spoke, it was as if he hadn't slept for a week.

Surprisingly, the man chuckled. "Erik, Erik… my boy, when will you start calling me by my first name? I am only called "Assistant Commissioner" when I am on the job and there is no police work to be done here. We are friends and I offered you this information as such. At any rate, you needn't show me out, I remember where the door is. Go, get some sleep, you look in desperate need of it."

"Forgive me, Ronald, the finer points of camaraderie sometimes elude me, having lived most of my life as a recluse. You have my undying gratitude for the information you have provided me."

"It was not a problem, although it did merit an extensive search. We must have looked into ten hospitals throughout London and the surrounding boroughs…"

"If that is the case, I would be more than happy to compensate you and your men for your efforts."

"No, absolutely not. I insist. I am always more than happy to do an old friend a favor!"

The last exchange closing the conversation, she heard the doors to his study open fully and saw a man step into the hall. Christine exhaled silently and crouched down but his attention was focused elsewhere. She remained in this position until his footsteps faded into the foyer and the front door opened and closed.

She heard another crash come from Erik's study, this time the sound of glass breaking, and she slipped back up the stairs. Christine found her room and, holding her spinning head to steady it, sank back into bed, an uneasy sleep taking her.


	11. Raoul

**Oh my gosh, it's been soo long! Well like a week... but I get antsy when I don't update every few days, which is funny because I see a lot of stories that take months to publish new chapters. But, I promise I have been writing ... a LOT, albeit on paper when work is slow. I just haven't gotten around to typing it up and final edits, yet. I think I have through chapter 14 done and after that I only have an outline of the events to come.**

 **Anyways, the last chapter was sort of suspenseful. I won't give away the bombshell for those who haven't read or choose to skim, but in this chapter things will come to a head. There's a lot more of that internal conflict explored, especially when Christine can no longer pretend that her previous life and decisions are in the past. There's sort of a reality check for Erik too as he realizes the depth of his feelings and also has to face elements of their past. This chapter contains a BUNCH of moodiness and depressing scenes, however there might be a bit of a bittersweet surprise that might make some people say, "Finally!"**

 **But, that's all I am willing to give away. ;) Enjoy, keep the reviews and support coming, and as usual, I own nothing.**

Christine came downstairs early the next morning, convinced what she had overheard the previous night had been a dream. Raoul couldn't be alive. She had seen him lunge at that awful fiend, watched him hopelessly grapple over the pistol, the thief gaining the upper-hand as he yelled for her to flee. She had heard that horrible crack echoing through the crisp night air. _She had seen… But she hadn't really._ _He very well could have survived._ If the ruffian had been the one to fall, why didn't Raoul come and save her? _You never even bothered to go back and find him, to help him… You hoped he was dead, your own husband. The man that worked so hard to obtain, and eventually gave his life for, your freedom._

Her stomach lurched painfully as she recalled these memories. A faint voice in the back of her mind taunting her, feeding off of her anguish and delighting in her strife, as poisonous thoughts of remorseful self-hated coursed through her veins. Its stinging words rang true, she was a terrible person and an even more deplorable wife.

Erik paced his study restlessly, the letter that had changed everything clutched tightly in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other. He was not normally one to partake so early in the day, but this was an exception. He had needed some sort of remedy, something to stay his nerves for what was about to come. _How would he tell her?_ He sat down in a chair and running his hand through his hair anxiously, he read it for the thousandth time:

* * *

 _Dear Mr. Leroux,_

 _I have had an update regarding the matter you requested be looked into, I am therefore writing to inform you that the man you inquired over has been located; however, the situation at present is complicated, much more so than written correspondence would allow. Please expect my arrival this evening following the concert to further elaborate._  
 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Sir Ronald Cartwright, Assistant Commissioner Scotland Yard  
_

* * *

With a burst of temper he tossed it into the fire and watched it curl over itself, the blackness spreading like blood from a wound, until it was reduced to ash. He smoothed his hair back into place and exhaled slowly. "Good, you're awake. I was going to send Elsie to rouse you but now I see that it's unnecessary. Please come in, there is something we must discuss." he said, observing Christine at the foot of the stairs, her robe trailing behind her.

Already pale and startled, she walked into his study as she was bidden and sat down in one of the chairs. _Where did he begin?_ _Should he divulge that the night he had found her it stirred in him previously dormant feelings-anger, betrayal, heartbreak-raw and real as the day she inflicted them; lurking underneath his agony was the lingering realization that he would never cease to love her and that she could never be his?_ The combination of all of these factors had sent him into a frenzy and in the coarse heat of temper he had reached out to his friend in Scotland Yard to inquire about her husband's death. In the midst of his indignation he had hoped her idiotic boy was still alive, hoped that the Vicomte would come and collect his wife and leave him in peace; he couldn't face Christine and the misery he knew she'd bring a second time. _He just wanted her gone._

But what a fool he had been! _Be careful what you wish for..._ he thought bitterly as he sat his empty glass down on the edge of the desk. _Well, no point in delaying._ "Christine, I had a friend in Scotland Yard investigate ... _Raoul's_ death, hoping to bring the murderers to justice." he began, his lie smoothly masking his true intention. The note of frigidness in his voice from the night before was still present, mingling with the acidity with which he said her husband's name. "And I've just received news..." He paused to look at her, the last bit of color drained from her face and her eyes were wide sensing the impending doom. "The Vicomte is alive, however, there is some doubt as to how much longer. The Assistant Commissioner has arranged for you to see your husband, we must leave soon if we are to arrive ... to meet him. That is, if you wish to go..." he said, his voice wavering in the hope that she would refuse.

He had at the very least expected her to faint, to collapse with the weight of her grief; she could gather as much from his expression. But she disappointed him yet again. Christine sat there, straight and resolute, her face unchanged. "Of course. Excuse me while I dress." was all she said as she stood up and walked out.

She returned to his study not thirty minutes later dressed in a plain grey dress. Their eyes met and he quickly looked away, unable to bear the knowledge that he had sabotaged any prospect of her being his. Something selfish inside of him protested that he should have just left well enough alone. _No, even then he could never have dreamed to have her, they had moved beyond that._ "Very well." he said, leading the way to the waiting carriage.

The ride was oppressively silent, leaving the both of them at the mercy of their thoughts. Why was she so unaffected by this news? Her darling Raoul was alive, she should be overjoyed to see him, even if it was just to say good-bye. At least she would get the closure that so many others never received when their loved ones were taken. How could she be so cold, so unfeeling? _He was your husband, you pledged your life to him, and you left him to die alone! He would have done anything for you..._ As they rattled down the road, her inner turmoil threatened to consume her.

Christine tried her best to ignore the worsening scenery outside her window. It was almost like they had been transported to somewhere else entirely from the pristine streets she had visited and the grand London homes that adorned them. A thick, stifling black smog engulfed everything, transforming day into night. Filthy people lined the streets, barely discernible, trudging to and fro under the ever-watchful eye of a large factory in the distance; wraiths flitting in and out of focus within a shadowy hell. Finally Christine closed her eyes, haunted by the look of resignation she knew would cloud every pair of eyes they passed.

Though the trip took fewer than twenty minutes, the suffering surrounding them prolonged served to prolong it. At last they rolled into a brick complex and came to a halt in front of a dilapidated building, the sign, "Infirm" was barely readable, the rest of the word clouded by dirt and overgrowth. _How could Raoul be put in such a place?_ Christine almost fell as she exited onto the uneven cobbling but was caught by Erik, who steadied and quickly released her. A middle-aged man in uniform with a bushy beard waited on the front steps, this must be... "Assistant Commissioner." Erik said stiffly. The man countered with a gruff nod, eyes lingering on Christine. He sighed, "Come with me, Monsieur Leroux... _Mrs..._ "

Obediently they followed after the man. Upon entering she let out a gasp, latching onto Erik's hand, if she thought the exterior was grim, what lived within its walls was far worse. A suffocating fog of despair choked the joy out of all things living; this place belonged to Death, himself. All around them were the wails of the condemned, the staleness of rot hung in the air. She tried her best to look straight-ahead, clutching his hand ever tighter in hopes that her Angel would prevent one of these lost souls from rising up and dragging her into the earth. The party stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall, where a nurse was exiting. "Miss, I do not wish to disturb you, but these are the visitors I informed the doctor of yesterday." She nodded and flashed an apprehensive look at Christine. "I'll fetch the doctor at once." she said, hurrying off and leaving the door behind her ajar.

Christine walked up and pushed it open hesitantly. It was extremely small, the size of a closet. Inside she could see curtains next to a bed and a small table placed next to it. She grappled behind her searching for Erik's hand, trying to pull him into the room. He retracted it sharply. "Please, Erik. I cannot go in alone." she pleaded. He relented after a moment, kicking himself for not considering how difficult this must be for her, watching her husband, the man she loved above all else in the world, in his final hours. Naturally she would want someone familiar close at hand, even if his presence only represented security.

They had not made it a step farther when an angry voice rang out behind them, "No, Cartwright, this is absolutely unacceptable!" They turned around to face a man in a white coat wearing a furious expression. "I have already informed you of the situation, Dr. Graves. We discussed that the patient's wife would visit him, Monsieur Leroux agreed to be her escort." spoke the officer calmly. The doctor threw a contemptuous gaze at Christine, "Yes, his wife... so concerned for the fate of her dear husband that she could not be bothered to come sooner. Now she presents herself alongside her lover to play the charitable woman, no doubt in hopes of attaining his fortune. How very convenient." She saw Erik's look in her periphery and wondered if this horrible doctor would meet with the same as Lord Hinton had. "And you, sir... You are the one who requested a private room. There are no private rooms in a workhouse infirmary, it must be quite shocking to see how the rest of London lives. No, no. I will not allow this to transpire. You must all leave at once!" Dr. Graves said turning to Erik. She saw the latter's eyes narrow, but Cartwright spoke up, "I'm afraid you have no choice, sir. His wife shall be allowed a visit." The doctor scowled, pressing a finger into the other man's chest, "I only agree for the benefit of this institution, which might suffer should I protest. But, I endeavor you to take note of what you, what your Poor Law has done to the city." And with that he stormed off.

But the doctor's cruel words were barely audible to Christine as she got close enough to see the figure in the bed. He looked like hell, there was no other word to describe it, and even that didn't do justice by it. Raoul de Chagny was barely recognizable. His once handsome face was grey and gaunt, his hollow cheeks lending him the appearance of a skeleton. His pretty hair was matted with the gnarled beginnings of a beard to match. She was instantly reminded of the night by the lake, of that kiss. She had been scared to approach Erik then but still felt something pulling her forward into his arms, this was now reflected with Raoul. She did not want to come closer but still she continued propelled by her morbid curiosity.

She approached the bed, noticing that Erik was no longer with her, but not pausing to search for him. When she reached his side, she was taken aback by how much worse he looked than previously thought. The covers were pulled up to his waist, leaving his chest and the ragged, greying bandages around his torso visible; all facial features obscured by a layer caked on filth and sweat, with the exception of the few ragged hairs dotting his jaw, wriggling with every twitch of his mouth and curling over themselves like fat, black maggots. The insufferable stench of decay was the only thing that seemed to make him real.

"Raoul?" she whispered timidly, placing her hand on his. The only response she received was an increased volume in his delusional mutterings. _Would he really not recognize her?_ She tried to think back to when her father lay dying but remembered Madame Giry sent her to bed after her father told her about her guardian, her Angel of Music; her father passed later in the night. In truth she had no experience with which to compare. "It's me, Christine, _your_ Christine." she continued. At the mention of her name, his eyes opened slightly. "Christine..." he repeated slowly as if he had never before heard the name. She squeezed his hand in affirmation, tears clouding her vision. "Yes, yes, I'm here, darling." she stumbled. Rather than comfort, her presence only seemed to agitate him and he flailed about. "What...What's wrong?" she asked in alarm. _Could he sense her guilt?_ He thrashed feebly, "Sorry...forgive me..." he moaned, shaking his head. She tried to protest but he continued, "Forgive me...forcing your heart...choosing me...should have been... _him_."

For a moment she was too startled to react. _Had Raoul just apologized for her choosing him over Erik that night? No, he couldn't._ These must be the delusional ramblings accompanying death. He turned his head towards her, words separated by slow breaths, " _I know_...it is alright, Chris...tine." His hand moved weakly under hers and the corners of his mouth twitched in an attempt of a smile. Now a peacefulness washed over him and he relaxed, closing his eyes; the anemic smile still on his lips. It was the look of a man who had been absolved in the hours before death. "No, no, no! Raoul, please! I've only ever loved you, please...my love..." she bawled over and over. But Raoul did not stir again; he lingered for hours, Christine sobbing over him. Eventually his mutterings gave way to groans and other unspeakable noises announcing the end was close at hand. She did not even know when his chest stopped rising or when the odor of death had completely embodied him, but she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder announcing Erik's return.

She looked up at him with streaming eyes, "Come. It is time to leave..." was all he said. Her sadness devastated him to the core, there was nothing he wouldn't do to take her pain away, and at the same time her final plea to her husband rang in his ears: _"I've only ever loved you."_

They returned to the townhouse late in the afternoon. Christine made her way upstairs in a wordless daze; she had the distinct impression that Erik didn't want to be near her. Besides, after the morning's grueling events, the only thought that permeated her mind was having a bath. _A bath_. Her husband had just died in front of her and all she wanted to do was bathe. She expressed her wishes to Mrs. Foley, who obediently drew one in somber silence. In all her years the old maid had been grief's unwilling companion several times, she now watched Christine with the eye of experience; the girl was clearly in shock and she waited for the dam to break. She briefly wondered if Christine had any idea what was to come.

As Christine sank into the hot water, she could scarcely process that her beloved childhood sweetheart, Raoul, was gone. The first time she had thought him dead, she had internalized all her grief as if she were living a dream. Once she was alone, the grief hit her like a tidal wave. She sobbed into the bathtub until the water was cold and she had not a tear left. Rather than sadness at his passing, her grief was rooted in her guilt. _How could she have put him out of her mind? How could she have wished him dead so that she could enjoy Erik's company?_ But most of all she was haunted by his final words. His dying wish that she would be happy with the one she had truly loved… _Did she love Erik?_

She did not have time to ponder because Mrs. Foley walked in with a fresh towel, nightgown, and dressing robe. The older woman kindly helped Christine into the nightgown, wrapped her in the robe, and escorted her to her room. There was a plate of sandwiches and pot of tea resting on the table by her bedside. Mrs. Foley took her leave soon after, offering her condolences. Still in shock, Christine took one bite of a sandwich, put it back onto the plate, and collapsed on the bed. She did not even realize she had fallen asleep until she awoke to find her room completely dark.

Christine walked downstairs, barely aware she was moving, some unknown force bearing her forward. Only when she closed the door, and turned around, did she realize where she was. Erik sat at his desk, scribbling furiously, more disheveled than she had ever seen him: shirt partially unbuttoned and untucked, his hair out of place, sleeves rolled up. He didn't bother to look up from his work. "I did not think you so impolite as to bypass knocking, Vicomtesse."

Her heart sank a bit lower when she heard the inhospitableness in his voice. "I…I wanted to speak with you." she managed, discomforted by his lack of eye contact. She wasn't sure he had heard her because he continued writing without delay. When she opened her mouth to repeat herself, he finally spoke, "Yes, concerning your husband's funeral arrangements… You should not be burdened by such things in your grief, so I have taken the liberty of booking you passage back to France from Aldeburgh in two days time. William has business in Suffolk with his great-aunt, so he will accompany you." He paused, it was clear he thought this answer satisfactory and expected her to leave.

She stood there, dumbfounded, immobile. "I don't wish to imposition William. Why can you not escort me?" she pressed. "I have spoken to him and have his assurance that it will not be a problem in the least. As for myself, I am required in London and do not have time for leisurely pursuits by the seaside." _Leisurely pursuits by the seaside, that's what she was to him?_ Christine took a deep breath, struggling to keep her composition in front of someone so desperate to wound her, "But, I do not wish to return to France…" she muttered quietly.

At last he looked up. Christine instantly regretted speaking aloud, she sounded like a spoilt, petulant child and his expression indicated he regarded her as such. "The Comte de Chagny has already been informed via telegraph and your presence at your beloved husband's funeral is compulsory." he said with considerable derision, violently snapping the leather portfolio on his desk shut and standing up. Tears streamed down her face as he walked past her, allowing a wide berth as if she were something disgusting on the roadside. "I want to remain in London with William, with Annabelle, _with you._ " He stopped and turned his head. "You try my patience. I will not fall victim to your ploy, Christine. There is no reason for you to stay, your dear husband is dead and you must return to France, to the sumptuous life to which you are accustomed." he scowled, continuing towards the exit.

Christine hurried to head him off, standing in front of the impressive mahogany doors and barring his way out; her defiance only further stoking his rage. She had expected him to explode at her, instead the only sound that escaped his lips was a dangerous hiss, the blue of his eyes now writhed like an angry sea. Still, Christine held her ground, throwing her arms out, thinking that it would prevent him from simply moving her out of his way.

"Let me pass..." Though he spoke calmly, his words dripped with venom. Her only reply was an insolent shake of her head. "Erik, I thought we were once again friends! Why would you subject me to this? I was content in believing Raoul dead, that you and I had rekindled the relationship we had lost!" she shouted at him, her voice cracking as tears gave way to sobs. The guilt of her admission haunted her. _Relationship. Why that word?_ Was what they shared... that almost-kiss, that beautiful harmony, had that meant anything? _It had to her. Why had she chosen that word?_ It was this that caused his anger to boil over.

"YOU DARE TO ACCUSE ME?! MY ACTIONS WERE SOLELY FOR YOUR BENEFIT! WHAT WOULD CAUSE YOU TO OPERATE UNDER SUCH DELUSION?! YOU UNGRATEFUL, FOOL OF A CHILD! PUT ASIDE YOUR GIRLISH FANTASIES, CHRISTINE. HE WAS YOUR HUSBAND, YOU CHOSE HIM. WHAT HAPPENED…ANY HOPE…is gone…" his roar becoming little more than a whisper at these last words.

Fury reverberated in every corner of his mind and he longed to escape from her. What temptress's game was she playing? He had heard her that same morning, heard her profession of undying love for her sweet Raoul. Why would she confuse what was between them for anything other than a … _well it was a relationship, but one borne out of a desire for stability during trauma._ Swearing to himself, he realized the only course of action was to forcefully remove her. As he effortlessly threw Christine over his shoulder, she pounded her fists into his back, shrieking to be put down.

He obliged, heedlessly dropping her onto the sofa. As he stepped away, he felt something grasp his arm; Erik spun around and eyed her dangerously, shaking himself from her hold. "Let me go." he spat. Daringly, Christine brought her eyes up to meet his, showing him she was unafraid and catching him off-guard, her chocolate brown eyes disarming him; she was no longer crying. He froze momentarily; Christine could not understand her next course of action, but propelled by some newfound brashness, she stepped closer to the seething form towering over her and placed her hand on his chest. His jaw clenched at the soft touch, the touch which seared his flesh...

All the while, her gaze did not falter; something else trickled into her eyes, something almost imperceptible. _Was it desire?_ Surely, he was imagining it in the cloud of his rage. Not even anger provided asylum from his longing. "Erik, don't go..." she beseeched, her pleading tone mirrored in her stare.

Christine came even nearer until they were mere inches apart, placing her other hand on his bicep. _God, he could feel the heat of her body._ The intoxicating scent of lavender danced around him, filling his nostrils, possessing him; some witchcraft in her eyes drawing him nearer, uncaging something inside of him. Before he realized it, he had sharply pulled her to him; his free hand finding and nestling into her dark curls as he brought his lips to hers.

This was the kiss that had tormented her for the last two years, finally finding sweet release in reality; instinctively she moved her lips to match his urgency, a spark coursing through her when their tongues met, her blush intensifying as she felt the solidness of his form against her. And when he pulled her deeper into the kiss, deeper into himself, so deep that she seemed to melt into his body, she thought she might faint.

Raoul certainly had never kissed her like this; theirs had been chaste by comparison; the clumsy kisses shared between children. Erik's lips worked over hers with a frantic, yet gentle pace. Emboldened by some unknown force, she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. He let out a gasp, picking her up and pressing her against the wall. So urgent was his desire-no, _need_ -he knew he could no longer control himself. The confidence governing her movements once again, she responded by shifting her hips, eliciting a groan from the man so helpless to resist her.

Only the shattering of glass brought them back to reality. Erik heard Mrs. Foley utter a curse under her breath. Immediately he tore himself away from Christine, lightly letting her onto her feet, fixed his shirt, and stormed out into the hallway. Christine was left alone in his study, her head still reeling, every square inch of her body burned. When several minutes had passed and she heard a door upstairs slam she realized he was not returning. Silently she glided upstairs to her room and shut the door. As she climbed into bed, she was aware of how suddenly cold her inner thighs were. She blushed, she had never felt this way before, but she found that she didn't mind, however uncouth it was.

Erik hurried to his room, he had used the maid's clumsiness as a chance to escape the situation before he gave in completely to his desire. He did not even check to see what she had broken, all he could think about was getting away from the woman who had caused him so much pain yet could still turn him to putty in her hands. Closing the door behind him, he sagged against it, his breath coming out in shallow gasps.

Erik thought back to two years ago when he had first come to London, thought back to his dalliances with Elizabeth and the few others; he was used to being in command, especially of himself, and though he was new to the world of carnal delights, he had never once lost control. He didn't think he ever could. He was a fool allowing himself to find security in this delusion. And was sorely mistaken.

As soon as his lips had touched hers, he felt his discipline slip until it completely deserted him; even her touch, a simple graze of her hand, left him powerless. Just being near her was enough to set his teeth on edge, a fight to keep himself in check. _That_ was why she had to leave.


	12. Departure

**How was that for an intense chapter? Though, the end probably left things somewhat unfulfilled, before you stop reading and hate me, read this next chapter. I was going to divide it into two parts but there wasn't an equal split to be made, so it's just long. Hopefully I will redeem myself, haha. Plus, things may or may not get sort of risque. ;)  
**

 **I actually had this one written a while ago and I have been eagerly awaiting when I could finally publish it because it's one of my favorites and one of the ones I was most comfortable writing about. I can't really say much more without spoiling it, so I will have more to say before the next chapter. Happy reading, try not to be too mad at me, and I don't own anything!**

Christine stood numbly in the doorway sharing a tearful good-bye with Mrs. Foley. She couldn't believe she was leaving London, _leaving Erik._ Although he had departed much earlier in the morning, determined to avoid her. She glanced down the steps, William's carriage had already arrived to transport them to the train station and she did not want to keep him waiting. With a final suffocating hug, Mrs. Foley let her go, promising to have her trunks sent over as soon as possible.

The ride to the station was peppered with William's condolences, though she appreciated his sentiment, she had no desire for conversation. She was granted a brief spate of relief when she fell asleep on the train ride, awakening when they had reached Suffolk. William found the carriage his great-aunt had sent for him and the pair set off to the port where Christine's boat was scheduled to depart in a few hours. As promised, he took her to lunch and saw her off with an awkward hug and promise to write. Ominous clouds hung over the town the entire day, finally opening up and dropping a light drizzle as the steamer cast its lines. As she made her way below deck, Christine couldn't help but think how fitting the weather was for the occasion.

Erik watched the boat depart from his position in the Martello Tower, the rain was making him slightly nervous. He knew as well as any that the weather on Suffolk's coast could be wholly unpredictable; just in the few moments since the ship cast off, the rain had become considerably heavier and a bitter wind began to blow out of nowhere.

He secured the Aldeburgh Martello Tower through Reginald's military ties as an afterthought the previous day. He did not know what it was that caused him to change his mind and follow her, no matter how furious he was with Christine, his fierce desire to protect her still lingered within him. He cursed his undying love for the woman who had so readily betrayed him and now had come back into his life to slither into the confines of his heart once more. Erik had known he had no hopes of resisting her even now, years later. That was why he sent her away for the second time, despite what Annabelle had told him. _The thought of her loving him was preposterous._

As soon as she boarded the ship, he immediately regretted his decision but still convinced himself that it was the best one. He could not survive a second heartbreak at the hands of his former student and what angered him the most was her ignorance of the entire situation. _How could she not know how torturous it was to be in the same room as her? How could he not better hide his disappointment that her foppish boy of a husband had survived the attack in the park?_

With a sigh, Erik realized this was the right course of action lest he, the damnable beast her husband thought him to be, lure Christine into any compromising situations. A voice inside his head screamed that he only had himself to blame... Had he not been so weak as to kiss her, maybe things could have been different. His mind churned faster than the wind outside, which was developing into quite an impressive storm. But he reassured himself of the safety found on the newer steamships as the boat chugged its way farther out to sea indifferent to the budding tempest.

Erik glanced at his pocket watch, something floated out as he opened the cover. He looked down and his heart leaped into his throat at the sight; there on the salty stone floor where it had come to rest, like a lone flower growing out of a cobbled path, was a lock of Christine's hair. _How?_ Then he remembered leaving the watch on his desk the night before and hoped she hadn't looked into the portfolio as well, though it hardly mattered now that she was leaving. He picked it up numbly and held it to his face, it still smelled of lavender. There he remained, lost in his thoughts and hopeless dreams, until he was jerked from his fantasies by distant shouting on the beach.

Five or six fishermen frantically sprinted down the shore towards the docks. He could no longer see the boat, _where had it gone?_ His heart dropped violently from his throat when he managed to hear what they were saying.

"She's sinking!" he heard one man scream. Without a second thought, Erik dropped the precious keepsake he had been admiring and sprinted down the steps to the beach loudly swearing, only word on his mind: _Christine._ He found a small rowboat perched on the rocks below the tower and saw it had not been used for some time. Praying that it was still seaworthy, he dragged it out into the surf and began to row, glad that the hull was intact. His muscles burned as he tried to keep the small boat on course, the fog made it nearly impossible to see and the pounding waves threatened to either swamp or hurl the boat into the rocks. _Was he even going the right direction?_ His answer came when debris floated by and the fog broke long enough for him to make out the black outline of the steamer; it was listing badly and he heard the panicked screams of her crew as they prepared to plunge into the icy seas.

Erik got close enough to where he could make out the silhouettes of people frantically running to and fro across the deck, he saw the lifeboats lowered into the angry sea. _He was almost there!_ As he took another stroke, he clapped his hand over his mouth. There on the edge of the stern was a woman, the shape of the billowing curls unmistakable… she was preparing to jump to the boat below. His heart stopped as he saw her plummet towards the water.

Christine stood pressed to the railing, gripping the slick metal so hard her knuckles turned white, below her the sailors and passengers already in the lifeboat shouted up words of encouragement, begging her to jump. She almost lost her footing as the boat gave another violent lurch, she could not believe how quickly it was sinking. Finally she swallowed her fear and let go of the railing, the wind and sea spray stung as she fell. This had to be a dream, it certainly felt like one.

She plunged into the waters below without a second thought. Years of living with her father at the house by the sea had left her quite an adept swimmer, but that was long ago. The multitude of dress layers cushioned the impact but the sudden coldness of the water caused her to inhale sharply, sucking in mostly water. She coughed and sputtered while trying to catch her breath.

The sailor standing in the lifeboat was shouting something indiscernible at her as he cast a line in her direction. Relief passed over her as her hand fumbled through the water in front of her and found the line. She grasped it tightly and felt herself being hauled to the boat.

When she was a child she had swam in her bathing or even her underclothes, but now, sporting a full woolen dress, crinolette, and bustle it was a struggle to even keep her head above water. Even a young Raoul had known to remove his jacket and shirt before running into the sea after her scarf. But this was no time for wistful memories, the situation in which she found herself was incredibly real.

The man continued reeling her in until she was nearly within reach. He passed the rope off to another man and offered an oar for her to grab onto. She frantically grappled for it before she was able to get a decent hold. Christine was almost to the boat when she saw it: a huge wave surging towards the boat. The occupants didn't notice until it was too late. She watched in horror as the lifeboat was flung sideways and dashed against the rocks. She did not see what became of the people because she was swept away by another large swell.

Christine moved her arms and legs frenziedly, trying to compensate as her dress steadily became more waterlogged. In the struggle, she managed to rid herself of her shoes and cloak but it made precious little difference. Slowly it dawned on her that these were probably her final moments and she was surprised at how calm this notion made her. Her only regret was that she could not be in Erik's arms. _Would he even mourn her death? No, he won't, he wanted you gone._ The realization that she would never again look into the soulful blue of his eyes caused an overwhelming sadness to take her, it mingled with the tranquility preceding death.

The sea churned angrily around her as tears began to slide down her already wet cheeks. "I'm sorry, so sorry, my Angel of Music." she whispered over and over to no one. She was completely alone, just her and the sea, but through her tears she was able to make out something bobbing a few feet in front of her, a barrel. Unexpectedly she was overcome with a vigor she did not know she possessed, it pulsed through her rapidly, driving out the previous resignation of her mortality. Somehow she found enough strength to move herself through the water until she reached the piece of flotsam, cleaving to it painfully.

It appeared her renewed will to live had hijacked and was now governing her. Although the freezing wind nipped mercilessly at her and she shivered almost to the point of convulsing, she gathered enough energy to scream for help. Maybe there was another lifeboat or someone on shore, she knew they had been very close to the coast when the ship had run aground. In the back of her mind she knew it was probably futile, even if there was another boat, it would be nigh impossible to hear her over the storm. Nevertheless, she kept shouting even when fatigue replaced the fury from moments earlier. The wind mocked her cries with howls of its own, " _Noooooobooooody caaaaaaaan heaaaaaaar yooooooou..._ " it seemed to jeer.

Erik fought to guide the rowboat towards the wreck, barely managing to traverse the wicked waves. There was no longer any sign of the steamer, the arrogant rocks now stood alone, a testament to Mother Nature's power. The only evidence of the accident now floated all around him... oars, nets, bits of wood, empty barrels. _This was hopeless. He would never find her_. The rain and sea spray stung his eyes cruelly as he scanned for any sign of life. He saw several bodies float by and felt his insides knot at the thought that she could be among them. _It was entirely his fault, he had sent her to her death, in a way, she had been killed by his own hand._ If he hadn't allowed his temper, his hatred for her husband, his fear at relinquishing himself to her, to control him, she would still be alive. A terrible mixture of guilt and sadness washed over him as he desperately whispered, "Christine, I'm so sorry, forgive me..." into the vacuity.

The tempest around him appeared to pick up on his anguish, the plaintive tones mocking him, " _Yooooou coooooooouldn't heeeeeeeeelp meeeee..._ " it echoed repeatedly, the sound almost human. He came to his senses with a start, realizing _it was human._ Instinctively, he moved in the direction of the sound. Though he heard it growing fainter, he relied on it to guide him, the whirlwind around him rendered his eyes useless. He came to an abrupt stop when the noise did. Bracing himself, he stood up in the boat, frantically scanning the horizon for something, anything. His prayers were answered with a faint inkling of movement and he was just able to discern the outline of a piece of oddly-shaped debris moving with the surf. He surmised it was about forty yards off the port side.

He dropped back down and rowed to it hastily, an autonomic reaction to the gigantic swell that was fast approaching; forty yards became thirty, then twenty-five, twenty, fifteen… He saw the wave advancing in his periphery and pushed forward in an attempt to beat it. Every muscle burned and protested with his efforts but he still wasn't quick enough. He was only five yards from his destination when he saw the surge hit the barrel from the side, carrying it along, it resurfaced dramatically a short distance away, surprisingly unscathed, happily unburdened by whatever had previously clung to it.

Without thinking he grabbed a bundle of rope from underneath the bench, there was a small clatter as a sheathed knife fell onto the floor. He tied one end of the rope around his waist, securing the other end through the rowlock, strapped the knife around his bicep, took off his mask, kicked off his boots, and dove into the roiling sea.

Christine somehow managed to hold onto the barrel, each wave she encountered sweeping her upwards and lowering her once again, the motion made her stomach turn, but she resisted, afraid she would lose her grip. All the while, she continued to call out for help, her voice growing quieter as the cold seeped into her bones. Every one of her senses was slowed, dulled. She did not see the approaching wall of water or here its defiant roar over the already cacophonous storm.

The suddenness of the impact caught her off-guard; only figuring out what had happened when she began ceaselessly rolling under the water, each rotation disorientating her more. She slackened her hold for a split-second, but that was all it took for her lifeline to be callously ripped away. Without the barrel to slow her, she was flung more violently. Once she was no longer turning, she opened her eyes and saw she was surrounded by inky darkness, there was nothing to distinguish the sky from the abyss below.

She paused to regain her senses, praying for a sign. As if on cue, there was a flash from above: lightning. Christine began kicking and thrashing wildly, her dying limbs fueled by survival's need… clawing, straining, battling to break the surface. Her entire body burned reluctantly, but all else was soon eclipsed by the stinging protest of her lungs. _Almost there._ A lightness gently cradled her weary head and tiny black spots began clouding her vision. However, the sheer will to survive appeared to win out as she slowly and laboriously ascended. _Just a few more strokes…_ her mind rallied feebly.

Christine might have made it had it not been for a second wave. It picked her up effortlessly, an autumn leaf on a breeze, and rolled her head over heel. There was another pause. Her dress felt weighted with lead and the feeling bled into her legs, up her torso, through her arms, dragging her ever downward. It soothed the insistent burning in her chest and encouraged the black dots to grow and meld together. The strange serenity from earlier returned, urging her to give in. She did. The blackness started to encompass her, cloaking her reassuringly, claiming her for its own. Mercifully, it allowed her one final thought before completely possessing her. _I love you…_ said her mind's voice softly before it surrendered to nothingness.

Erik struggled to locate the person beneath the foaming waves; everything before him merged into the black void. His breath slowly running out, he pleaded for a sign, his begging made unnecessary by another, brighter flash of lightning overhead. It temporarily illuminated the ocean around him and he was able to see the figure tumbling limply in front of him, completely motionless. Once he was near enough, he realized that it was a woman. His heart leaped nervously in the hope that it was her as he slid his arm beneath hers and across her chest, gripping her opposite shoulder tightly. His legs kicked upwards but they stayed in place, the starkness of her weight pulling them both down.

He acted quickly, knowing what he had to do. Pulling her tight against him to ensure she did not slip from his grasp, he removed the knife from its sheath with his free hand and slipped it under the laces at the back of her dress with careful haste, applying a gentle upwards pressure. The ties broke free obligingly against the blade and he gave silent thanks that it was still sharp. He placed the knife between his teeth and ran his hand along her sleeve in an attempt to find the seam, fortunate to have located it almost immediately. Erik slid the knife down the threaded trail and repeated the process on the other side, both coming apart with ease.

He gave two upward kicks and the dress fell from her, floating eerily into the depths below. Next he worked on cutting her free of the weighty bustle and crinolette, though the entire endeavor took less than a minute, it felt to him like an eternity. Re-sheathing the knife, he kicked twice more and they gradually broke the surface. Erik took several deep, refreshing breaths of the cold salty air before placing the rope in the hand holding onto the woman. And grasping it securely, he began to pull the both of them along. He hoped the boat was still there and hadn't drifted off to sea or been lost to the rocks.

To his relief, he saw that his fears had not come to pass, the boat held its place in what appeared to be a lull in the storm. Grasping onto the side for support, he pushed half of her body over the edge of the boat, hauled himself up next to her, and drew her legs into the boat, flipping her over in the process. There was a sonorous boom of thunder as the grey sky lit up, and he could see clearly that Christine, _his Christine_ , lay inert before him.

Getting ashore was now the only thought that held any credence in his mind. The fog and sea spray had lessened enough for him to visualize the shore; he estimated it was maybe a hundred yards away. He rowed, propelling the small craft forward with a determined fervor; his heart felt ready to fail and his muscles threatened to follow suit, but he stayed the course. The waves carried them onward the last hundred or so feet and soon, _graciously soon_ , they skidded onto the sand below.

He dragged the boat up the beach and severed the rope, dragging Christine onto the cold sand and collapsing by her side. But there was something wrong. She laid there pale, motionless. He pressed his head to her chest, she wasn't breathing. _Oh, Christine, please no._ He wracked his brain, _how long could she endure without breath?_ He didn't know. At least her heart was still beating. _For now._

Erik turned her over onto her side, clapping her soundly between the shoulders in an attempt to release the water but was met with no result. He laid her onto her back, placed her arms up, and pulled them back to her sides again. He repeated these actions again and again, his distress increasing with each passing second. _"Please, Christine, please..."_ he begged, tilting her head back and putting his lips over hers, blowing a slow, steady stream of air. Her chest did not budge and he tried a second breath. It then clicked. _It was the corset, it had to be._

He cut away the wretched garment but nothing happened. _"No, no, no... Christine."_ he whispered, hardly noticing the tears falling from his eyes in sync with the rain. Erik reattempted each technique, his efforts yielding nothing. She seemed beyond saving. _No, he wouldn't give up until her heart did._ But her pulse was growing fainter by the second.

It all seemed inevitable now. Pausing to behold her lifeless form. She looked so peaceful lying there, a pale and beautiful fallen angel; her lips were as blue as the merciless water that had frozen her through. "Christine, please...I... _I love you._ " His words were barely audible over his sobs. _Anywhere you go, let me go too..._ he recalled, his eyes moving to the knife on the sand, only one thing circulating through his head:

 _O! here will I set up my everlasting rest,_

 _And shake the light of inauspicious stars_

 _From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!_

 _Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you_

 _The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss_

 _A dateless bargain to engrossing death!_

Erik bent over her, weeping, his tears fell silently against her skin. " _I love you..._ " he said softly as he planted his lips to hers again, letting his air fill her lungs. Her chest rose slightly. _Was there hope?_ He stroked her cheek, the knife held tightly in the other hand, as he gave her a final breath, longer, more desperate than its predecessors.

He was unprepared for the terrible noise she made when great volumes of water surged from her mouth. She expelled it for an eternity, vomiting until no more water came forth; the violence with which she coughed and retched threatened to tear her small body asunder. Once the torrent had slowed to its final drops, she collapsed back onto the sand, her breathing shallow but gaining strength, her body still. _When had she stopped shivering?_ He lifted her off the ground and carried her up the beach to the waiting Martello Tower, to shelter. He kicked the door open and placed her on a table in the dining quarters as he searched for towels, blankets, linens, _something..._ He smiled grimly when he located a large stack of thick woolen blankets.

He left them on the tattered leather chair in the officer's study and lit the fireplace. Silently he thanked his friend for stocking the fort with necessary amenities. Once the fire could stand on its own without constant tending, he went back to fetch Christine, placing her on the sheepskin rug next to the hearth, after folding two blankets and laying them under her. _She was so cold._ He knew what he needed to do. Gritting his teeth, he fastidiously removed the rest of her saturated undergarments until she was completely unclothed. He closed his eyes, trying to give her privacy, as he tightly swaddled her in three blankets. After he had finished, he realized how cold he was, his limbs were heavy and almost completely numb. He thickly fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and removed his own trousers and undergarments, quickly wrapping himself up to hide his nakedness.

After he laid both their clothes out on the hearth to dry and donned his mask again, he sat down next to her, placing his hand on her cheek and feeling nothing but cold. Tentatively, he bent over her and placed his lips against her forehead, she was like ice; the blankets weren't doing anything, she had lost too much heat. He secured the cover about his waist and went from room to room frantically searching for a hot water bottle, some stones, anything to heat, but came up empty. He walked back into the room oblivious to his surroundings, a battle raging in his mind.

 _There was no other way._ She would die if he did not act. Slowly, he unwrapped the careful cocoon of blankets he had placed her in. _Get it done with._ He took a deep breath before the plunge, and laid down behind her. The iciness of her skin was the first shock, the second came with the realization that they were both exposed and she was flush against him. However, he was far too exhausted to ponder it further and he fell into a light sleep, shivering at her touch.

He awoke some time later, wondering how late it was, unable to tell if the blackness was owed to night or the storm still raging outside. He knew his watch would be useless after getting wet. He reached out and touched her, it appeared she had warmed considerably; happy to see the some of the pink had returned to her cheeks, he moved to the leather chair, still not wanting to stray too far from the fire's warmth but hardly thinking it proper to remain next to her. He fell asleep once more, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

His second attempt at sleep was not so welcoming; he relived the trauma of the afternoon as soon as he closed his eyes. Once again he was diving, searching for her, and eventually finding her. He hadn't wrapped an arm across her chest when the wave struck, bigger than all the rest, it rolled him, knocking Christine from his arms, when he finally steadied himself he saw her sinking into the abyss below. "Christine!" he called out. But she was gone forever. He woke suddenly with a gasp, his eyes shooting open. There she was in front of him, pure as the day the Lord first created woman; unhindered by clothing. _This had to be another vision,_ though it was exponentially better.

He looked on shamelessly, believing to be in the confines of his mind, in the place where he retreated to enjoy every bit of her. The spectre reached out to touch him and he held out his hand to receive hers, ready to pull her to him. She placed her hand in his, its stark coldness revealed that he was no longer dreaming. Instantly he averted his eyes. _Why had he regarded her with such boldness a moment ago?_

 _"Erik… Is that…? Are you really here?"_ she asked, her voice hoarse from the coughing. _"Yes."_ he managed with considerable strain, trying to keep himself from staring at her. "But, how?" she asked in confusion. He stood up, grabbing the extra blanket from the back of his chair and placing it around her in an attempt to cover her modesty, "In time…" he answered.

She looked up at him, the blanket sliding from her shoulders and onto the floor. Immediately, he bent down to retrieve it, if only to avoid seeing her. "Erik, I want…" He picked up the blanket and draped it about her, this time more securely. "I am unsure what we have in the way of food—" he began. She shook her head. "What is it you desire, Christine?" She smiled slightly as she looked into his eyes, stretching up and putting her lips to his. _"You…"_ she muttered into his mouth, shaking the blanket off once more. No, he was mistaken, _this had to be a dream._

"No, _we cannot_ , Christine." he said unconvincingly as she stood on her toes and kissed him, pressing herself against him for support. He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to keep her at bay.

His heart beat wildly out of check now, this was quite too much. She walked towards him until he was against the chair and fell into it. Slowly she straddled him, the blanket around his waist the only thing between them. _"Christine…"_ he groaned faintly, _"Please…"_ For a moment he thought he might give in, he wanted nothing more, and his body betrayed his desire. _But, this wasn't the right time. She needed to recover._

With considerable effort he stood up, shrouding her in the discarded blanket and holding her tightly. She gradually relented to his will, relaxing into his arms. She realized how exhausted she truly was and allowed him to lead her back to the makeshift bed he had made for her. He covered her once again, running his fingers through her hair, "Rest... we will speak once you've had time to convalesce." She looked up at him with heavy eyes, "But, you'll send me away..." He brushed her face tenderly, "You may remain by my side for however long you wish." Christine allowed sleep to take her fully, soothed by the comforting sincerity of his words, content that her dreams had merged with reality and both held Erik.


	13. A Familiar Dream

**Where to start? First off, I am SO, SO sorry that I have not been publishing regularly. But my life has been hectic to say the least: remodeling the house, school, studying for the LSAT, new puppy, etc. I just haven't had time to finish this chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the last chapter (the one I posted forever ago, lol). I just wanted to say this about it:**

 **The last chapter was probably one of the most fascinating ones for me to write and the most familiar. I am a lifeguard and as it so happens, know a fair bit about drowning. I tried to make everything as accurate as possible. Note: while it only takes 2-3 minutes for drowning to occur with brain damage; this time is prolonged in cold water (that is, water less than 70 degrees F). The water temperature in Aldeburgh for May is on average 51 degrees F; which is just warm enough to not induce cold shock but still more than cold enough to render someone hypothermic. At first I wrote it as one would for contemporary revival efforts after a drowning but after research, I learned they did not have "chest compressions" in the 1870s; however they did raise the arms above the head and give breaths. Erik is a smart and well-read guy and a lot of survival/resuscitation techniques are common sense; I feel like it is more than believable that he could figure out what to do in an emergency situation despite not being a doctor.**

 **Anyways, I will try to post more regularly and not be such a hypocrite. :) I DO hope you like this chapter and another will soon follow, just have to finish typing up a certain scene. Fingers crossed it will re-whet your appetite. You know the drill, I own nothing.**

Christine slept for what felt like mere moments; her dreams which started out most wonderful had turned to nightmares. Her eyes opened when she felt a jolt of pain flash across her cheek. Somehow she had gotten tangled in the blankets and ended up falling out of bed onto the floor; the cold, salty stone was soothingly cool. _How did she end up in a bed? Where was she?_ She did not recognize any of her surroundings but from the level of darkness, she guessed it was evening.

Last she remembered, she was on a ship bound for France, then in the cold sea, sucking in her last breaths. She did not recall much more, but someone had saved her; she had felt the coarse sand and sharp wind when her rescuer had dragged her ashore. In her dreams, Erik had been the white knight to come to her aid, but that couldn't be. _Could it? No, he was back in London, probably oblivious to the disaster._

Christine managed to untangle herself and rise to her feet shakily. From the dim light of the fire, she could discern that she was in some sort of sparsely furnished, decrepit, stone room. It reminded her of the fairy tales her father used to tell her of medieval castles and knights. Now that she was awake, she might as well explore. She grabbed the candle on the bedside table, first searching the room for a robe to cover her modesty; her clothes were nowhere in sight and she was clad only in her chemise. Finding nothing, she wrapped a blanket around herself and pushed the worn wooden door open, it led into a larger anteroom, one that looked to be a study of some sort.

The fire was lit in this room as well and there were blankets piled in the armchairs and on the floor; it gave her the strangest feeling of deja vu, this room looked almost familiar. _Had she seen it in her dreams, the unmentionable dreams she dared to have of Erik just hours before?_ She couldn't decide and continued on her way, her head swimming. _What would she do now?_ She had no money, no clothes, and no idea where she was. Should she try and contact Annabelle or William or… _Erik_? _Would the latter even want to hear from her or help her?_ No, Erik was a very fair man. He would at least make sure she was looked after until some arrangement could be made and she was certain that neither William nor Annabelle would mind her staying with them. In fact, Annabelle would probably insist… "Ow! Damn!" she swore loudly as she crashed into something solid.

She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't realized her feet were still bearing her forward and had carried her right into the edge of a long, crude table. She looked around, eyes watering, and concluded she must be in the kitchen. Come to think of it, she was famished and hoped whomever had rescued her left some bread, some meat, _some…_ "That sort of language is very unbecoming. I suppose I am at fault, had I known you would start speaking as a sailor does, I would have taken you far away from the coast." Came a man's voice. _No, it couldn't be. She was dreaming yet again._

Christine snapped around, almost dropping the candle and tripping over the blanket in the process. Beholding her expression, he quickly backtracked, "I apologize, my joke was unwarranted…" _What was that look in her eyes, disappointment, anger?_ He couldn't decide. He did not know how she would react to his presence, but he definitely did not expect her to leap into his arms with a fury that almost sent them both crashing to the floor. After a moment of stunned silence, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

"Erik, is it really… can it really be you? Please tell me I am no longer dreaming." she said, looking up at him tearfully. "You are not dreaming, no." he answered quietly. Once again, the shock of hearing her admit to dreaming of him, left him nearly speechless. She was more than he could ever hope to have, but that did not stop his longing. She said nothing, instead burying her face in his chest. He felt a cold wetness on his shirt and heard her gentle sobs. "You're alright now, Christine. You are safe." he mumbled, unsure of what to say. Truthfully, he didn't know why she was crying. "I am just so glad you are here, that I hadn't lost you forever. I thought I would never see you again, please forgive me for angering you?" she said, looking at him again.

It was almost too much for him. Rather than answering right away, he took her free hand and led her back into the study. He pulled her onto the rug in front of the fire so that she was seated across from him and sighed, "Christine, it is I who should beg forgiveness. You did nothing wrong, it was my gross overreaction that led me to send you away and my regret was immediately realized. I followed you to make sure you got off safely, rightly so, because had anything happened, I would no longer be able to live with myself. Indeed, I feared the worst when I pulled you ashore… I have never been more frightened. Christine, I will stay by your side for however long you wish me to remain. You will never lose me again; I will be there..." He paused, stroking her face, each of them moving closer, " _…always._ " he finished, their lips about to meet.

But they were interrupted by a loud gurgling growl. "I've forgotten how hungry you must be after sleeping for two days." he said, pulling away. "Two days?" she echoed with confusion. "Yes, you were exhausted, quite understandably so." he replied, bringing her into the kitchen and grabbing a basket from the counter. "I brought back some smoked meat, cheese, and bread from a local pub when I met with Reginald earlier today. It isn't good enough to be classified as supper, proper, but it should hold you over until we travel." He placed the basket in front of her and sat down across from her.

The fury with which she dug into the food surprised her; she had not realized just how starved she was until she took the first bite of bread. "Reginald is here too?" she asked between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. In the back of her mind, she saw Madame Giry's look of disapproval concerning her abysmal manners, but she was too hungry to care. "He is in town, yes. After all, it was he who arranged for me to stay in this place, he who called a physician to tend you, provided us with new clothes, and made the arrangements for us to return to London." Noting her puzzled look, he continued, "I will explain everything on the train to London tomorrow. You are feeling well enough to travel?" She nodded, chewing on a piece of meat. "We will be leaving quite early and I recommend getting more rest. I laid out a dress and cloak for you in the officer's quarters, however it is quite simple. I hope you do not mind."

Deciding he was right and that resting up for tomorrow's trip was wise, she walked in the direction of the bedroom and paused in the middle of the study. "Are you going to bed as well?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. He nodded. "But, where will you sleep?" She looked around the room briefly. "In one of the chairs by the fire as I have done for the past two nights." he replied, wondering why she would ask such an odd thing. Christine turned around to look at him and a thought popped into her mind; she spoke before realizing just what she had said, "Would you not be more comfortable in the bed?" A rare look of surprise graced the visible half of his face and she realized the indecency of her question. Her cheeks blazed scarlet and Erik decided not to call more attention to the matter. "The chair is comfortable enough and will suffice for one night; you need the most rest and I insist you sleep in the bed." Grateful he did not embarrass her further, she nodded, bid him good night, and retreated into the bedroom.

Erik remained standing in the same spot long after the bedroom door had closed. He frowned, a mixture of disappointment and anger coursing through him, disbelieving she had asked such a thing. Was it possible that she wanted him to share her bed? No, he was sure it had been an innocent mistake and that she had not realized the implication of her words; still she should have more decency. He sighed, his anger and disappointment was not directed at Christine but instead at himself, at how close he had been to accepting her offer, at the scandalous thoughts now circulating about his mind...

He did not hear her approach until she reached out and cupped his face, gently placing her lips to his. She grabbed his hand and led him to the bedroom, letting go at the doorway, and continuing forward until she was standing beside the bed. She gave him a self-assured quirk of her lips and pulled her chemise off in one swift motion. She was naked. His breathing quickened and he tried not to react, but the flash of desire that crossed his eyes was impossible to miss. She outstretched her arm, beckoning him. Erik complied instantaneously. He reached her in two steps, kissing and pulling her close without a second thought. His hands slid down her back, stopping to cup her bottom. Christine fell onto the bed, grabbing his shirt and pulling him with her; her hands impatiently struggling to unclothe him. If he had any doubts, it was too late, he was at desire's mercy.

Erik opened his eyes and sucked a breath through his teeth; it had all seemed so real... But this was just another addition to his endless barrage of fantasies; each one eroding his self-control more than the last. _This is it. I'm going mad._ Once he had been incredibly confident but Christine's reappearance in his life had tempted him, tried him, and left him yearning. He chuckled mirthlessly and reflected on this irony: he, who was once feared and respected at the Opera Populaire, was helpless in the hands of a young girl. He kicked off his boots, sank into one of the chairs, and threw a blanket over himself. Reluctantly, he embraced sleep and the tantalizing dreams that it promised.

The next morning came much too early for Christine's liking and she noted with annoyance that Erik was unaffected. Soon the pair was on the train seated in the plush velvet of the First Class cars. Thankfully Erik was as quiet as expected and she used the time to catch up on the sleep she missed the previous night. In truth, she closed her eyes solely to return to the world of dreams and of Erik. Since their reunion, she had dreamed of the most unspeakably sinful things; acts she did not even know how to name. Things which the other girls of the Opera shared after the candles had been doused and the dorm was cloaked in darkness; things which had always caused her to glow red and want to visit the chapel.

In her current dream, she was revisiting the first ever kiss they had shared in the caverns beneath the Opera; as she had so many times before. But this time was different, Raoul was not there, nor was the angry mob. Instead of breaking away from the kiss as they had done in reality, it continued. Their bodies so close as if trying to merge; at last Erik picked her up and carried her to his strange peacock bed. He removed his shirt and stepped towards her, resuming their kiss. All the while, she felt his nimble fingers undo the lacing on her dress; the wedding dress he had made for her. She felt strange having worn it for such a short while but she wanted the pleasure of their inevitable coupling more. Finally, both parties were free of clothing. Erik never broke the kiss as he laid her down on the bed and…

Her body was shaking, or rather, something was jostling it. She heard a faint voice, "Christine. We've arrived at the station." Her eyes snapped open in annoyance. _Why did her dream have to be interrupted?_ Her anger cooled immediately when she realized she was staring into the very same blue eyes that dominated her fantasies.

In a short while, their carriage arrived in front of Erik's handsome townhouse. She held her breath as she crossed the threshold and walked into the parlor; the uncertainty of the past few days was replaced by a sense of security and relief. She belonged here, _in this house, with him_.

Erik entered the room behind her, he had changed into his own clothes and fixed his hair. His brow was raised, "You seem quite pleased; is everything alright?" he asked with a hint of concern at beholding her silly grin. "Yes, I am just glad to be back home—I mean, in a familiar place." she quickly corrected, ears burning. _Why had she said that? He must think her a fool._ He stared at her intently for a second, obviously caught off-guard. _Had she realized what she said? Moreover, did she mean it?_ "I am gladdened by your comfort. I must go to the concert hall to prepare for the next two concerts; I did not intend to be away for so long…" His voice trailed off upon noticing the guilt that crossed her face, "I made sure everything was in order before departing, so no harm should be done. I will be home late tonight, Elsie will see that you are cared for. My personal physician will be by this afternoon to be sure that … that you suffered no damage. I can promise that Annabelle will make it her mission that you do not lack for company." He let out a chuckle as he exited.

The rest of the day went by quickly and just as Erik predicted, Annabelle and William arrived just after the physician left. She did not realize how lonely she was until the reunion with her friends and invited them to join her for dinner. As they tucked into Mrs. Foley's delicious steak and kidney pie, Christine periodically glanced over her shoulder. William swallowed his food and spoke, "If you are expecting Erik, I doubt he will be home before midnight. I met with him earlier and he stressed to me the importance of the last concert, particularly. I've never seen him so worked up while planning a sur—" but he was cut-off by Annabelle, "But you know, dear brother, that this is the last arrangement of his month-long program and he is over-anxious to impress and awe the general public." She let out a light tinkle of laughter. _Come to think of it, the pair of them had been behaving strangely all evening._ _Were they keeping something from her?_ _No, she knew very well that Annabelle could not keep a secret._ Eventually the friends said their good-byes and Christine recognized she was exhausted. She waited a few moments more in the parlor for Erik to return until she could no longer keep her eyes open and retired for the night.

The physician strongly advised she stay indoors so as to not risk pneumonia until she had recovered fully. Erik agreed and insisted Christine stay home to rest instead of attending the third concert. Though she disagreed, she knew it was fruitless to protest. At least she could attend the final concert.


	14. The Final Concert

**Well, shit. I decided to split the last chapter into two and copied the text, but then I copied over it like a moron. So I've had to re-write everything. Thankfully, part of it is written on paper, but it's a small consolation. And, it is this chapter that will be split instead.  
**

 **I'll address some speculation: Wouldn't that be something if Erik proposed? I guess you'll have to read to find out if that's the secret. ;)  
**

 **Also, thanks so much for the reviews! I really appreciate the feedback. Before I launch into a chapter which has been a long time coming and will hopefully satisfy, I have some small hints at what might be coming ahead. _Everything has been coming together quite nicely between Erik and Christine but how long can they stay like that? Where has that mysterious old woman been and have we seen the last of the terrible quartet: Elizabeth, Caroline, Lady Margaret, and Lord Hinton?_ **

***Note: Camille Saint-Saëns is one of my favorite composers and I am in love with his, Symphony No. 3 in C Minor, Op. 78. Normally I like to keep everything historically accurate and include real events/buildings in my story, but I decided to amend that rule a bit. In this story, Erik is the one who composed this symphony, which I felt was believable because of the novel usage of 2 movements, rather than 4.  
**

There was no sign of Erik over the next week and she eagerly awaited the final concert so that she could once again enjoy his company. Annabelle's daily visits were the only thing that kept her from losing her mind. The eve of the concert, Annabelle arrived late and frazzled. "My apologies, Erik summoned William to rehearse for tomorrow's event and he took the carriage. I've never seen him so anxious, I don't believe he's slept in days. From what I've heard he is driving everybody mad, especially over that ridiculous organ. I believe it's because he has never planned an event this special..." she said, sitting down in the parlor. "Why is this concert different than the rest?" Annabelle looked dumbfounded, like an actress who had forgotten a line. "Well, nothing really. I believe he is just worked up because Her Majesty will be in attendance tomorrow. Anyways… I don't wish to be rude, but could you ring for afternoon tea? It's late and I am parched."

She followed her nightly ritual of waiting up for Erik but was disappointed yet again. Despite how tired she was, she laid awake for a while. _Why was Annabelle behaving so oddly?_ It was almost as if she was hiding something, _but what?_ On top of it, Christine could not help the nagging feeling that she was overlooking something important. She sighed and thrashed around for a bit longer trying to get comfortable, eventually falling into a dreamless sleep.

It did not occur to her until the next morning just what was bothering her; today was her birthday. The events of the past week and a half had been so hectic, that she had forgotten her own birthday. Had Erik forgotten as well? She decided it was understandable if he had, given the looming final concert; and paused to reflect on the irony that the most important night of his career happened to fall on her special day. She did not expect anything anyways, he had done more than enough already. Her introspection was cut short by a ring at the door.

She ran down the stairs expecting Annabelle, or perhaps, Erik and almost crashed into Mrs. Foley. The latter eyed her suspiciously, "My my, aren't we in a hurry. If you're expecting someone, all I can offer is this." she said, holding out a box. Christine looked at the floor and apologized profusely, but the maid only flashed her a big smile. "Well shall we see what's inside?" The younger woman nodded vigorously as Mrs. Foley opened the box. "My lord, I believe this is the best one yet!" she exclaimed, holding up a dress.

It was the most rich and pure shade of golden yellow either of them had ever seen; ivory gloves were tucked under the dress neatly. Christine spent what felt like hours looking it over. As a Vicomtesse, she had seen finery, she had seen incredible gowns imported from far-off lands, she had seen dresses that cost as much a as a small estate, but this one topped them all; from the strikingly colored silk, so smooth it felt like water gliding over her fingers, to the delicate lace detailing around the neckline and sleeves, to the expertly placed ruffles, and flounces, to the stately velvet trim wrapping around the skirt and forming bows on the sides, it was almost intangible. The dress was enough to bring back her girlhood impatience: she couldn't wait to put it on. But she couldn't help feel unsettled by it and vowed to put an end to Annabelle's gifting that night. She could not stand to be indebted to a friend, not like this.

The rest of the afternoon ticked on slowly but reluctantly gave way to evening and with the early evening came Dorothy, cheerful as ever. "I've strict orders to do my very best dressing you tonight, since you might very well be meeting The Queen!" She smiled and set off to work with quiet determination. When the maid had finished, she stepped back in admiration of her work. Christine peered into the mirror with amazement; Dorothy had outdone herself. She tried to mutter her gratitude but was delayed by a knock on the door. "That'll probably be Miss Annabelle or Mrs. Foley coming to collect you." Dorothy said with a smile as she went to open the door. Christine continued staring at her reflection in disbelief. _Would Erik be as pleased as she was? Would he be proud to have her on his arm in view of The Queen?_ She did not have to ponder for long.

"Excuse me, sir, begging your pardon. I didn't expect to see you… Lady Christine is dressed." Dorothy said quickly. It was clear he had startled the girl. "Very well. Thank you, Dorothy. You may take your leave; Elsie has prepared you a nice supper and is waiting for you downstairs." Christine turned around slowly to see Erik standing in the middle of the room, already dressed for the evening. It felt bizarre seeing him for the first time in days and her breath caught in her throat. "Forgive me, I know this is highly improper, however I wished to present this to you myself." he said striding towards her and pulling a velvet box out of his jacket. He opened it. The necklace inside was even more exquisite than the dress she was wearing, were it possible. It was a pearl and diamond choker; the collar was comprised of three rows of stones-a row of diamonds flanked on either side by pearls-all converging at a central stone, larger than the rest, a pearl of gold surrounded by smaller diamonds, a small trail of diamonds hung downward culminating in a large drop pearl of impeccable lustre; within the box diamond and pearl drop earrings, each reflecting the unique single golden pearl of the necklace on a smaller scale.

Her mouth hung open as she admired the jewelry, but she soon looked away with a small frown. "It's splendid, but I cannot accept. Annabelle is akin to a sister but this gift crosses the line." To her surprise, Erik laughed. "I'm afraid you have placed undo blame onto dear Annabelle. I hope you will reconsider your stance as I am responsible for the dress and jewelry this time. May I?" he asked, gesturing to the necklace. She nodded but said nothing as she felt the cold metal clasp around her neck. Silently she clipped on the earrings, still in shock that the dress and jewelry was his doing. She looked at herself in the mirror; she must be dreaming, finery such as this surely couldn't exist in reality. Christine turned to Erik in a daze, he was frowning. "I was sincerely expecting it to awe, but I confess my disappointment, the finest gems pale in comparison to the radiance of your beauty. There's no sense in brooding over it, we must leave." he said, offering his arm. Still blushing, they descended the stairs together.

They arrived to a deserted concert hall. Normally there was an abundance of people gathered all around, chatting, mingling, and awaiting the start of the symphony, but tonight only a few stragglers and staff members were visible. She looked to Erik, but he seemed unconcerned by it. There was something odd about him tonight and she wondered what it could be. Perhaps it was just because she hadn't seen him in so long or that she had been isolated for the past week? _Yes, that had to be it._ The pair took their usual seats and she was relieved to see the familiar faces of Annabelle, Reginald, and William. She must have been imagining all the strangeness.

As the concert began, her relief in the normalcy of the night was shaken. Annabelle glanced at her the entire duration of the first symphony: Symphony No. 101 in D Major, excitedly whispering to William while Erik seemed to grow more anxious as the performance progressed; he was fidgeting and sitting on the edge of his seat, both were highly out of character for him. It was probably nerves caused by The Queen's presence. _What else could it be?_ The intermission only fueled his uneasiness and he appeared visibly unsettled. When it ended, she turned to him expecting him to follow but instead he squeezed her hand and said, "Return to the box with Annabelle and William, I have business to attend to and will be along later." Christine nodded and walked ahead, hoping to catch Annabelle alone and question her, however the younger girl must have sensed this, because the siblings were inseparable. Reginald was nowhere in sight and as she sat back down, she dismissed any hope that she would discover what was afoot and tried to enjoy the performance.

"Don't worry, my dear, Erik is just attending to business; it's all very standard." Came a man's voice next to her. Startled, she turned to look Reginald straight in the eye. "He was acting rather unusually, I don't recall seeing him this anxious before." she replied, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. For a second, Reginald froze, there was an offbeat look in his eyes, but it was gone in a flash. _Great, now she was imagining things on top of everything else._ "You haven't yet seen him on stage on the eve of a concert... Perhaps it is more apparent because of tonight's importance, it's not every day that he dedicates a performance. Her Majesty is in attendance tonight, as you know." He flashed her an encouraging smile and turned back to watch the performance, indicating the conversation was over.

Christine tried to focus on the music but found it extremely difficult. Annabelle, William, and Reginald had all been uncharacteristically vague and dismissive each time the topic of the final concert came up. _Maybe it was as simple as her friends said, maybe Erik was just anxious because tonight would determine his public success_ ; but she couldn't shake the feeling that their answers felt rehearsed. As the final symphony of the night began, she turned to question Reginald further but found he was missing. Still, as the symphony continued, her thoughts raced and increased her restlessness.

She was so lost in her haze that it took her a moment to realize the music had stopped, replaced by a familiar man's voice. Reginald was standing on the stage next to the conductor, strangely enough the orchestra was still seated; she shifted her focus to the words echoing around the hall. "...tonight's performance, however, it is not yet concluded." He paused while a wave of whispers arose all around him. "My dear friends, tonight you will all bear exclusive witness to a new symphony... A symphony composed by our own, Monsieur Leroux, in honor of the late Prince Consort, featuring the composer himself on the organ. Please excuse the secrecy, as we wished tonight to be a surprise for Her Majesty. Without further ado, please enjoy the closing symphony of our month-long program!" And with that, he walked off stage amidst a mixture of applause and heated murmurs.

Christine felt the breath leave her body, replaced by the hot tears that now clouded her vision. The quiet, slow melody filled the hall and held her in limbo, bewitching her; it paralyzed her temporarily, halting all thoughts and feelings. As the tempo increased, she remembered herself and her anger swelled in time with the music, not ebbing as it transitioned from somber to rollicking. The betrayal she felt was echoed in every plucked string, every drum beat, in every tinkling flute note. _Why would he keep something this significant from her? Moreover, how could he?!_ It was now obvious that Annabelle, William, and Reginald were all privy to Erik's secret symphony. _His symphony. His first symphony to be performed._ _He claimed he was there for her; he lied. It was unforgivable, inexcusable._ She had never been so grateful for darkness, for it hid her bitter tears. She hated to listen to it; it was nauseating. She wanted to leave, to run far away, but she couldn't. As much as she despised it, the music still held-fast onto her, she could not shake it nor could she be parted from it. Despite her outrage, this music- _his music_ -, seemed to embody everything about her, it held an element of her being. The ending of the first movement almost succeeded; the beauty of the soft morendo nearly quenched her rage.

But as the lively second movement began, it refueled the keen sting of Erik's treason. The unabashed pride of the presto stoked her indignation and each note of the piano's whimsical joviality mocked her. Christine had never felt so insulted and the swell of the music gave her the courage to finally leave. As melody tapered off she rose slightly in her seat, unable to quiet the pang of sadness at abandoning the music. _No, you must be strong; do it._ She rose almost fully. However, what she heard next disabled her. A thunderous sound pulled her back into her seat; the bold strings tried their hardest to mimic its strength, but were outmatched. The deafening chords of the organ possessed her firmly, yet gently. She relinquished herself to its resounding power; Erik was embodied within the seductive arrogance of each note. She quickly exhaled with the soft elegance of the piano but her breath was again quenched by the echoing organ. There was something different about it now, it was more vulnerable, more reserved. The orchestra's tempo quickened with a careful polyphony and the climactic recapitulation surged. The organ no longer dominated, but instead integrated itself, a God walking among his people; it was only distinguished by the plaintiff low notes issued from its pipes. All too soon, the finale came. The echoing booms of the bass drums highlighted the grand dignity of the melodic pipes, as the rest of the instruments ceased, leaving only the fading chords of the organ.

Still entranced and numb to the overwhelming roar of applause, Christine stood up and walked quietly out of the box. She was free and now she had to escape; the second movement had only anesthetized her indignation and with the music's end, her resentment returned, stronger than ever. She paused outside the box. _Where should she go? Down the stairs? No, too many people._ _The getaway needed to be quick, no witnesses. That would be easy, the only person she could see was a short, balding man and he seemed preoccupied. Besides, she did not know him._ She made a split-second decision to take a staircase upward once she glimpsed the returning figure of Reginald.

As she hurried up the stairs into darkness, the tears poured forth freely. Thoughts of treachery ruled her mind, blocking out all else. _"How could he?"_ She repeated over and over within her mind. Finally she reached a long, exposed corridor and ducked into a huge room; she stopped and crumpled against the wall, sobbing.

Christine did not know how long she stayed like that, but eventually the furor of her sobs died down and she began to wonder just where she was. She rose to her feet shakily and wiped her face with her handkerchief, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she looked around the room. It was messy and unfinished, there were ladders, tools, and cloths placed haphazardly throughout and cloths were draped lazily over sections of wall. _Where was she?_ As she walked along the wall, she got the impression that it was some sort of gallery. Slowly, she approached one such cloth and gave it a timid tug. Christine gasped, sucking in dust and launching into a fit of coughing.

After her eyes stopped watering, she rested them on what she had unveiled. It was an enormous painting, stretching a quarter of the length of the wall and nearly to the ceiling. The scene was rather a depressing one, a sentiment echoed in its color scheme of dull neutrals and dusty earthen tones. The figures in the painting wore looks of anguish, their bodies lying broken and hopeless as they awaited the merciful deliverance of death, riding astride a fearsome black stallion and cloaked in a uniform of royal blue with a white turban, clutching his scimitar. It was dreadful, but captivating. She stepped closer, her hand outstretched, she wanted to touch it, but she froze just short of the canvas.

"I see you've acquainted yourself with the gallery. Ah, Delacroix's, _The Massacre at Chios_ ; a bit too dramatic for my liking, I personally prefer the pensive introspection of Friedrich or the auroral landscapes of Turner." She did not turn around because she already knew whose voice it was. "How did you find me?" she asked in quiet defeat. "I would like to claim some divine omnipotence as I designed this venue, but truthfully Reginald saw you and passed that information onto me. Anyways, I was curious if you would accompany me to supper..." he replied, gently brushing her arm.

"Haven't you meetings and business to see to in the aftermath of such a successful night?" she asked jeeringly; recoiling from his touch and spinning around to face him, not realizing just how near he stood. Each of them inhaled slowly, staring at one another; _it was almost too tempting_ , the two of them utterly alone. She bit her lip as she looked into his eyes, there was something curiously unfeeling about her gaze. "Naturally, but I daresay it can all wait until tomorrow; I do not have the patience tonight. Are you alright, Christine?" She nodded and began walking to the exit, "Fine; just hungry. Shall we go?" came her reply as she stood and waited for him.

Their dinner passed without incident and soon they returned to his house. _Why was he so nonchalant?_ He made no mention of the concert and it infuriated her. Christine half-expected him to depart once they were inside, but instead he paused in the foyer and offered her a drink. His action only irritated her further. "No, I'm quite drained. I think I'll retire for the evening." she called down dismissively as she ascended the stairs.

It was not an outright lie, Christine was worn after the drama of the night. She changed into her nightgown, let down her hair, washed up, and climbed into bed. Sleep did not come and she laid there stewing in her anger. Finally, it overwhelmed her and carried her from her room. In her cloud of ire, she knew not where she was going, solely relying on it to guide her. A loud crash brought her to her senses. She looked around and found she was in Erik's study, the latter was staring up at her from his desk, wearing an expression halfway between shock and beguilement.


	15. Confrontation

**Uh-oh, who will save Erik from Christine's wrath? Will all be forgiven? I guess you'll have to keep reading to find out.**

 **I split this chapter from the previous one because it totaled over 6,000 words combined. Again, REMEMBER the rating, please. ;)**

 ***The pieces are Tchaikovsky's, "None But the Lonely Heart" and Chopin's, Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Op. posth., and, _Fantaisie-Impromptu_ (in that respective order). **

**As always, thanks for the reviews. I hope this chapter is to everybody's liking... I tried to keep some suggestions in mind. Of course, I own nothing and please enjoy!**

 ****BIG SIDE NOTE: I went back to re-read the story and noticed some of the formatting did not carry over when I copied/pasted it. It's just basic stuff like italicized texts, but I'm a stickler about these sorts of things so I've been going back and correcting it. I also wanted to amend some dates and set things a year into the future. I totally forgot that the movie takes place in LATE 1870/early 1871. The story should be set in spring of 1873, so I will go back and change that as well.**

"Christine, I thought you had gone to bed. Is there something you require?" She paused and looked at him, momentarily forgetting her purpose in seeking him out. "Yes, I wish to speak with you, Erik." He gave a curt nod and approached her, "I see... Does it concern anything particular?" The lackadaisical manner in which he addressed her rekindled her enmity. "Tonight's concert." she replied bluntly. He flashed her a small smile, "Of course. Did you find it enjoyable? I heard the ending came as a bit of a surprise..." _How dare he!_

Before she realized what she was doing, she stepped forward and punched him squarely in the chest, loosing her fury. "How. Could. You. Keep. This. From. Me. When. You. Told. Every. One. Else? I thought we were honest with one another, Erik!" she roared, each word of her inquiry punctuated with a punch. _No, it wasn't his concealment that truly angered her, what annoyed her more was his cavalier attitude._ He watched her tantrum with amusement, trying not to stare at her chest as it moved with each blow. Even in the heat of temper, she captivated him.

Though her strikes did not hurt, he had enough and grabbed her wrists, holding them tightly. She strained wildly against him, but his grip was too strong. His bemused expression became stern, "Enough." he said firmly. She flashed him a scathing look, "Release me at once!" she screamed. His eyes narrowed as he looked deeply into hers, moving closer, "Is that what you wish?" he whispered tonelessly. She nodded, captivated by his nearness, the smell of his aftershave, the pull of his disarming gaze. "Very well." He released her arms but she remained frozen to the spot. "I assume you are irate concerning your ignorance of tonight's surprise symphony. Suffice it to say, I am gladdened by this..." he said brashly, drawing nearer with each word. Was there no end to his insufferable arrogance? Her face contorted with rage and she tried to push him away, but he intercepted her hands with a smirk. "...because it was written for you, your inspiration lies in _every movement, every score, every chord, every note..._ Happy birthday." he continued softly, pausing to savor the shock he had delivered, his lips captured hers.

 _He had given in, his resistance would extend no further._ If Christine had, for a moment, believed the unintended kisses they had shared before were impassioned, she knew nothing of the depth of their shared longing. Something inside of him had broken free, for he kissed her brazenly. She felt her legs weaken under the intensity of his lips, using the security of his arms as a crutch. Erik obliged, pulling her against his indomitable form until she could feel every part of him. He wanted her with such force it was painful; wanted nothing more than to have her again and again. _But, did she want the same?_ She gave an answer, her hand brushing him as she blindly felt for his shirt buttons with clumsy determination. He tensed in the face of her unintended touch, gasping at her forwardness; his reaction filling her with smugness as she felt his shock register in his kiss. But, he quickly recovered, taking full advantage. Smoothly, he shrugged the shirt off and picked her up, her arms curled around his shoulders and her legs about his waist.

Erik never broke the kiss as he walked through the open doors towards the stairs. Christine marveled at his sureness of foot and ability to navigate the stairs, surprised his strength held even after they reached the levelness of the second floor; she capitalized on this, raking her teeth under his bottom lip. A noise escaped him and he crashed into the wall with unrealized force. _Had he hurt her?_ She jumped slightly at the impact, inadvertently grinding into him. He groaned quietly, stiffening when her nails dug into his back and pulling her deeper into the kiss, letting his tongue tease hers. He adjusted his grip, positioning her between the wall and his body to free his hand, which began confidently working at the buttons on her nightgown. His urgency was ever increasing, the necessity of pressing himself into her to prevent her from sliding down the wall nearly drove him mad.

Erik could feel his resolve slipping away, he could wait no longer, he needed her right then. _No, he couldn't given in, not yet._ Reluctantly, he began the onerous task of calming himself, abandoning the buttons; he renewed his grip and continued down the hall, pausing only to rest her against the door as he opened it. He walked across the room, setting her down next to the bed; one hand moved to caress her cheek, holding their lips together, as the other resumed unbuttoning her nightgown. While one of hers, slid down his bare chest, trailing down his stomach; her nails lightly raking the small strip of hair below his navel as she struggled to undo his trousers. Each fumble and glance caused his jaw to clench. _"Let me..."_ he said hoarsely. Though it was barely audible the quality of his voice, the vibration of his words against her neck, entranced her and sent shivers down her body.

She was ushered backwards, until her legs were touching the bed, as he stepped out of his trousers; unaware that she hadn't moved her hand, he walked right into her open palm. He hissed through his teeth and set his jaw. Possessed by a strange brazenness, Christine touched him again, this time deliberately; her hand brushing him through the fabric of his drawers. He groaned at the heat of her skin, at the teasing ministrations of her hand. _He had to have her;_ she was doing nothing for his self-control. Slave to his yearning he tugged her nightgown clear of her shoulders with a swift motion, the remaining buttons clinking as they scattered across the floor. He walked towards her, desperate to feel her skin against his, one hand settling on her newly exposed breast, the other reaching down to squeeze the firm roundness of her buttocks; it trailed along her hip and dipped between her legs.

Christine let out a sharp moan upon feeling his touch, her legs growing weaker with each long, gentle stroke of his fingers. Finally, they gave way and she fell backwards onto the bed; she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him with her. His lips moved down her neck, peppering her collarbone with kisses, slowly nipping and sucking the skin as he worked towards the peak of her breast. His hand remained where it had been, touching her at an agonizing slow pace. She felt the hardness of his body resting on her thigh, but something was amiss, there was some nasty foreign emotion lurking among her desire. Whatever it was, it was forgotten once his mouth found her breast, covering it in small kisses before sucking her nipple into his mouth. She felt his unoccupied hand graze her thigh as he tried to remove his undergarments.

The strange emotion feeling returned with overwhelming clarity. "Erik..." she whimpered, barely able to speak. "Yes...?" he whispered onto her skin. He did not halt his current endeavors and increased the pressure of his touch causing another moan to escape her. "Erik..." she repeated, "I can't..." He stopped immediately but reluctantly. "Christine, what's the matter?" he asked, his lips settling on her neck. "I...I don't know. It's just-I don't feel..." His dread increased with each word. _No, he was imagining it, she was probably just nervous._ "I just-it's not right... _Raoul..._ " _That's it, she had said it, said what he had feared._ "Of course, forgive me." he responded flatly, rising from the bed and walking towards the door. She watched him pull his trousers back on and after a moment heard the front door slam. Now she had done it. Anxiously, she searched his room for some sort of covering, finding his dressing robe and pulling it on.

Christine hurried downstairs, but Erik had long-since departed. She did not know what caused her to use the name of her late husband, but she instantly regretted it. Truthfully, she was just scared to cross the threshold. _Things had been fine when Erik had pined for her, but what would happen once his lust had been slaked? It was this uncertainty that hung over her. What if she didn't please him? Even marriage had left her with precious little experience... Would his feelings desert him? What if he thought her tainted?_ Her mind reeling over the endless outcomes, she fell asleep on the parlor couch.

A door closed nearby and woke her up. She rose from the couch cautiously and walked towards the light coming from Erik's study; she hoped it was him and not Mrs. Foley. Christine pushed open the door; he was inside, hovering over the piano in the corner of the room. "Erik?" she asked timidly, unaware of how he would react. "Christine... why are you awake?" Erik turned slowly to face her, he was a sorry sight indeed; his clothing was wrinkled and disheveled, his hair unkempt, and the from particular way his words lingered, she could tell he had been drinking. As he approached, she caught the unmistakable smell of alcohol. "You woke me when you returned home." she answered honestly, relieved he didn't seem angry.

"Oh, in that case, my apologies. Care for a drink?" he inquired, gesturing towards the cabinet. "No thanks, and I think you've had quite enough." He gave her a queer look and continued pouring himself another drink. "Will you play me something?" He took a sip of his scotch and thought on it for a moment. He was going to refuse, to lose his temper, she waited in the calm before the inevitable storm. To her surprise, he said nothing. She watched him walk over to push the doors shut, then back to the piano. He sat down, fingers gliding over the keys obligingly. Watching him coerce and mold the instrument was every bit as powerful as the melody itself. Erik played one plaintive piece followed by two noticeably that were noticeably more melancholy, finishing with a frantic yet beautiful composition; his playing magnified the emotions within each composition tenfold. As he continued she thought he must have forgotten about her, lost in his realm of music, but he halted unexpectedly and the room was plunged again into silence. "As a boy, I always found solace in Chopin's work."

"The first piece wasn't Chopin..." He spun around to face her, wearing an entertained look, "No, it was not; Tchaikovsky. Christine, why are you here?" She had been dreading this necessary confrontation, but there was no trace of malice in his voice. He stood up and moved to the couch, reunited with his glass of scotch. _Why was he so placid?_ "I...I wanted to apologize." she stammered. "Not necessary. I should not have encouraged it." he replied. "No, please..." Erik held up his hand, "Christine, you are still in mourning, I took advantage. I should apologize, not you."

His tolerance was aggravating. "Listen to me!" He froze, caught off-guard by her outburst. She sat down next to him on the couch; wanting to be close by for what she was about to say. "I'm sorry. I was-I am afraid..." He opened his mouth to speak but she kept on, "...not of dishonoring my late husband's memory. I am afraid that this, what is between us, will fall away; afraid of the uncertainty, of taking the plunge. Erik, I..." She stopped speaking abruptly when he took her hands in his. "You continue to underestimate the depth of my sentiment... There has only ever been, only ever will be you. I would swim across the Dardanelles in the pitch of night with no candle to guide me if it would so please you; I would-will do anything you ask and my heart is yours to bid. I love you, Christine."

His reply was so entrancing that she failed to realize they were kissing yet again. Christine lost herself in the moment, savoring his lips, the heat of his breath, the smokiness of the scotch on his tongue. Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons on his shirt for a second time, gaining confidence as they worked. She slid her hands up his arms and across his shoulders, dragging them downward over the nipples on his defined chest, her finger seeking out each indentation of muscle on his abdomen; he was scarcely breathing. His hands moved up the length of her thighs and found only her, no barriers of any kind. "My robe... _God.. you're not..._ " She only responded by kissing him deeper, while she felt his hand move from her thigh to cup her breast, his thumb making small circles about her nipple. He felt her unintentional brushes as she struggled with his trousers, this time bringing his hand over hers to guide it. He stood up, pulling her with him, so that his trousers fell to the ground and she removed the robe in reply, the silk causing shivers as it tumbled down her body.

An almost savage urge took hold of him as his hands traversed her newly exposed anatomy, attempting to grasp every part of her all at once; his fingers impatiently gliding between her thighs, slipping more with each pass. Her hand drifted from his shoulder blades, down his back until her fingers hooked into the side of his drawers and tugged sharply with little effect; his hand came to the rescue again and soon they were matched in their bareness. She trembled when she felt his readiness with her exposed skin; Erik moved to scoop her up, but she walked forward into him and he fell onto the couch; he glimpsed her form briefly, swallowing hard before flashing her a puzzled look. His wait was short-lived as she straddled him, just as she had that night in the tower. _Oh, how he had wanted her then; now he could have her._

Truthfully, Christine hadn't a clue what motivated her, she had never made love in this style before and only knew of it the dormitory whispers of her youth, but she remained steadfast in her choice, eager to share in something new. She hovered above him looking into his glassy eyes and felt his hands curl around her hips to hold her in place. He inhaled deeply; so many times previous had he been on the precipice that he had to steady his nerves before taking the plunge, letting out a strangled breath as he did. For a fleeting second, he felt as though his heart would rupture. Nothing on this earth had ever come this close, none of his previous liaisons, no food nor drink, not even the power of his music could match the pleasure experienced at their union. She froze after accepting nearly all of him. He must have sensed her trepidation because he now directed the gentle rocking of her hips with his hands. She let out a small squeak at the unexpected delight stemming from this new position. He coaxed her to move quicker and she felt a slight pain building below her navel, she had no idea of what it was but he seemed to, sucking her breast into his mouth and dipping his thumb beneath her curls to rub the sensitive bud occupying the space. She cried out as the building pain grew, bursting, expanding and washing over her in rapid succession. The subsequent clenching spasms caught him by surprise and he let out a groan, pausing to regain his composure.

He lifted her up, remaining joined as he walked over and pressed her against the bookcase, resting her slightly on the edge of a shelf. He winced when she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. He began moving his hips slowly, relishing in each twitch of her body. Evidently he intended on taking his time with her. She felt the building tension. Each unhurried stroke held her on the edge of pleasure and pain, the prolonged strain sent chills throughout her body. She was used to this method of love making, such was Raoul's style and she had grown to appreciate the comfort in gentle predictability, but her union with Erik awakened something primitive within her. _This was different._ Raoul had been diffident, but Erik exercised quiet reserve. It was too calculated; he was fully aware of his actions, of the effects. _He was toying with her._ Christine placed her palm against his cheek, coaxing his face away from her neck, and threw him a pleading look, _"Erik, please..."_ His eyes narrowed, the smugness was unmistakable within the clear blue. _He wanted this, he wanted her to beg._

She caught his smirk as he returned to kissing her, his lips leaving a trail of small pecks along her jawline; his pace even more deliberately agonizing. _"Please..."_ she whispered again into his cheek. He patiently continued until he reached the space at the edge of her jaw, _"As you wish..."_ he breathed, engulfing her earlobe with his mouth. She let out a sharp moan that shook her wholly, digging her nails into his shoulders when she felt him push into her forcefully. Christine felt the lingering sensation come to a head as he stuck her at an unexpected depth. She let out a scream; her body convulsed with the unexpected intensity, her nails boring into his flesh.

He uttered a low groan, the unforeseen aftershocks of her release reverberated all around him and he recognized the rapid loosening of his constraint. His tempo evolved into a solid relentless pounding in reciprocation for the way she clamped down on him. He did not know if he was hurting her, but he could not stop. Each one of his hammering strokes sent a jolt through her stomach. Another wave of pleasure swamped her, mingling with and magnifying the one previous, and her hips rose unconsciously to welcome him. There was no beginning nor end to her response, it was a cyclical shiver that reached its pinnacle with each thrust. The battering was a question, restated again and again in her flesh, becoming an inquisition and ordering her to reply.

She heard a shrill voice cry out, "Yes! Oh, Erik, yes!" not realizing that it was her own. She was no longer herself but instead a vessel inhabited by something dark and untamed, fighting to be liberated. He ceased his biting and sucking of her ears and neck and brought his gaze to meet hers, his eyes effusing a triumphal boast, crushing his mouth to hers. There was nothing tender in his kisses, only impetuosity. The bookcase shifted with his exertions and she worried for a moment that it would collapse; unsurprisingly she heard the clatter of falling objects around them. He grasped her buttocks, flattening her against him, allowing deeper penetration. Somewhere along the way he kindled a spark, unleashing an outpouring of compulsion and yearning. She needed him and the salvation promised in every stroke and arched her back to meet each impact. His breaths came heavy and ragged. His teeth clamped down on her bottom lip, there was a sharp pain and the metallic tang of blood. She replied by raking her nails from his nape to lower back, the soft skin tearing with the pressure. Christine could feel his body tensing with inevitability as they clawed and fought, ravaging each other in their desire to become one. Her exclamation combined with his and they lost themselves in one another in that final moment of fulfillment.

Christine relaxed, trying to catch her breath and steady her heart and letting go of his shoulders, expecting to be let down. Their eyes locked once again, within his burned an unchecked fury. _"No."_ he growled, _"I'm not finished..."_ Erik carried her to the fireplace rug, sitting down with his legs folded to the side and pulling her onto his lap as before. His hands engulfed her hips, guiding her movements with increasing speed. She interlaced her fingers with his and stared into his eyes, pressing onto him and establishing her own rhythm. He relinquished control to her, fondling her breasts and attacking them with small nips and kisses, gasping onto her skin as her cadence quickened, grinding against him. She was venturing ever closer to release; something he sensed and capitalized on. He gripped her hips, holding her against him forcefully, thrusting upwards. Christine managed a few more weak movements before tumbling over the brink. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of her hair and forced his mouth to hers, muffling their sounds as they again reached deliverance.

She slowly returned to herself, her head lying on Erik's chest listening to his shallow breathing and receding heartbeat. His arm encircled her, resting on her lower back, keeping her close. He reached up and tugged a folded blanket off the chair nearest them. "I was prepared to sleep in here..." he said, tossing the cover over the two of them. They remained in that position, heavily drugged with the aftermath of pleasure, until sleep took them.

Christine was unsure which woke her, the music or the faint early morning glow filtering through the curtains. She opened her eyes to see Erik at the piano shirtless, a blanket shrouding his lower half. She rose from the rug, retrieving the discarded robe and wrapping herself in it before moving in his direction. The room was still mostly dark. Even so, as she grew nearer she could see the red lines running down his back, intersecting a zigzag of old scars that served as a reminder of his haunting past. He concentrated on the keys, pretending not to hear her approach. He inhaled sharply, clenching his jaw when he felt her hand glide across his chest to touch his face, and his fingers froze.

"Your back looks frightful. I'm sorry if I hurt you." she said with concern. He stood up and pushed the bench out of the way. "No... I will be fine. But, how are you?" He noticed the violet marks covering her neck, reaching out and running his fingers over them. "I'm alright. Well, even..." she replied, looking up at him. He smirked and drew her to him, "Just _well_?" he asked mockingly before kissing her. "I must insist that you do not wear my robe..." She felt the vibration of his words on her lips when he seized her. There was a discordant crash as he rested her on the keyboard. "I cannot be expected to resist if you do..." he murmured across her cheek over the dying sound of the depressed keys. His hand slid up her thigh, parting the robe, and tracing the curve from her hip to breast. She let out a gasp, wincing as he entered her again, but her soreness was short-lived and soon blossomed into an anxious delight.

"What..now?" she struggled, speech proving difficult. There was a small pause. "Now? Now we sleep." came his breathless answer. Erik took her hand and led her up to his room. Sleep befell the pair just as easily as it had the first time.

They woke up some hours later but remained in bed. She lay on his shoulder while his fingers twirled a piece of her hair. "I'm sorry I departed so abruptly last night but if I hadn't gone, I would not have been able to stop myself from-" he trailed off. "Where did you go once you left?" she asked, even though it seemed obvious. "To the club to settle my nerves." Though he had downed quite a bit of scotch, he had by no means been drunk. Some bits of their conversation were foggy, but he remembered everything else vividly. _Had he told her he loved her?_ "Do you have much to do today?" She already knew the answer. _Why would she expect otherwise?_ He sighed, "Yes, quite so. I'll try to return home as soon as I can."

As he dressed, he thought he must still be dreaming and spent the rest of the day in a hazy disbelief. Evening arrived and he found himself seated in his office at the concert hall answering the last of his letters. The door knob turned and Reginald walked in but he did not look up from his desk. "Ah, Erik... I trust all of your appointments went well?" Erik continued scribbling, "Swimmingly. Haven't we an audience with Her Majesty this Tuesday?"

"You know we have..." Reginald answered. "Did you locate Lady de Chagny last night?" Erik cringed at the mention of her formal title and nodded. "Ah, good. I heard she was quite distressed over something." Erik stopped writing, "From whom did you hear this information?" Reginald flashed his younger counterpart a confused look. "From Miss Harland. However I noticed it myself when I spoke to her during the third symphony and she seemed unwell. What upset her?" Erik's eyes narrowed, he knew his friend was concerned for Christine, but his questions came dangerously close to prying. "She was agitated that we kept the knowledge of my symphony from her but we spoke at length and... well, ultimately she understood my reasons."

He signed his name with a flourish and sealed the letter within its envelope, eager to leave. Reginald had always known Erik to be somewhat evasive when directly questioned, but he sensed there was something else in play. "Erik, you didn't... did you?" The younger man paused. "Did I what?" he said coldly. Reginald backtracked, "Nothing. Don't bother locking up, I have some work to get through here." He knew better than to push it further. "Very well. Good evening, Reginald." Erik called as he walked out of the door, glad the conversation was finished and that he was one step closer to Christine's company. Reginald stood in place after his friend had departed. Although it was far from his concern and shameful for a man of his stature to encourage impropriety, he wasn't blind to the way Erik and Christine looked at one another and hoped that the pair had at last realized and acted upon their feelings.


	16. A Delightful Return

**Sorry again for another long break between updates! This chapter was sort of hard to write because I didn't know where I was going to go with it. It's been a busy couple of months with holidays, finals, knee surgery, and at the beginning of December my MacBook Pro crapped out unexpectedly, tossing out a good deal of what I had written.**

 **I had a long break and intended to write a bunch but never got around to it. I have been working a lot lately and managed to get in two chapters I think are stellar. Unfortunately, they go towards the end and contain a HUGE surprise. ;) I can't wait until I can publish them, but I will have to finish the rest of the story up until that point before that happens. I DO have a rough outline of how I want the story to go from here.**

 **Anyways, in this chapter we meet a new character.**

Two men sat in the corner of a large public room in the midst of discussion, one of them held a cigar. The duo was not so different from the two dozen or so others in the room at White's, except for the half white mask adorning one of their faces. This man did not have a cigar but instead held a glass of scotch in one hand and a pocket watch in the other; he looked bored. "My God, Erik, would you put that damn watch down? Since when does discussing business bore you so? I promise you she can wait a few moments more..." said the older of the two. After that last concert there had been a subtle, yet marked, change in his friend; he seemed to radiate the ease of contentment. Though Reginald had just issued reprimand, he could hardly be incensed that Erik had at long last found some bliss in life.

"Perhaps you should speak in a less dull fashion if you hope to retain my interest, Reginald." came the wry response. In truth, it would not have mattered if Reginald had tried to debate the merit of Cole's stylistic choices in, _The Architect's Dream_ ; his mind was wholly elsewhere, even now several possible designs and arrangements for his latest fascination wound through his thoughts. "I suppose our interests are concluded for the day, however I expect to continue this tomorrow." Erik's eyes glazed over with vague disgust, "If I _decide_ to attend that gross display of pomp and cruelty..." Reginald did not mind his young friend's dry wit, but this was gross impudence. "There will be _no_ question of your presence, Erik. Need I remind you what an honor it is to be watch from the Royal Enclosure at all, let alone by Her Majesty's personal invitation?! Besides, those animals are afforded better care than half of London." A contemptuous scowl and the gentle rap of a walking stick were the only reply he received from Erik's retreating figure.

Christine stood in the parlor, she was dressed for dinner and looked out of the window every so often to check for Erik. It wasn't like him to be late to any sort of engagement. Eventually she sat down in a chair with a sigh. _Maybe he had forgotten._ As if to answer her question, the door burst open and Erik walked in already in his evening clothes. "My apologies. My meeting ran longer than expected, I was forced to change at the club. Shall we go?" he asked placing his hands behind his back. He turned towards the door and waited, offering his arm when she was by his side.

Dinner trickled by relatively uneventfully, they were afforded near-absolute privacy. Throughout the entire meal, Erik looked as though he had something to ask. Finally over dessert, it came out, "Christine... as you know the concert hall renovation was enormously successful and Her Majesty was very pleased. Naturally, there are certain privileges afforded to me and this includes an invitation to the Royal Enclosure on Ladies' Day." He continued his explanation until the table had been cleared completely. "I'm afraid my attendance tomorrow is compulsory, however your presence will make it infinitely more pleasant." he concluded before rising from his chair.

Later that evening, as Christine sat brushing out her long curls, there was a knock on her door; she reached for her dressing gown and bade whomever to enter. She turned around expecting to see the kind face of Mrs. Foley and dropped the robe when she beheld Erik instead. He frowned, his eyes surveying the robe shamelessly flowering outward on the floor, trying not to stare at her; he cursed himself for not thinking to ask if she was decent before entering. _T_ _hat nightgown..._ "I apologize, I did not realize you were about to retire." he said, drumming his fingers against the larger box in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts. _How he wanted her..._ "Oh, no need... I was just brushing my hair." she smiled. He glanced at the dark curls flowing uninhibited and couldn't help picturing them spread across his pillow as she lay there, _under..._ _Why did he decide to come to her room?_

"I hope you will find this suitable for tomorrow's event." He held out the two boxes and she took them hesitantly, placing them on her bed, and opening the biggest one carefully. "Erik. It's simply lovely!" she said with an exultant sigh. The dress was cornflower blue satin with various bows and ruffling throughout. "There is a hat in the other box; you are required to wear one tomorrow. I was concerned it would not arrive from Paris in time, you know Mademoiselle Reboux's hats are high in demand—" His words were cut off when she threw her hands around his neck in a sudden expression of gratitude, placing a kiss on his cheek; his arms wrapped around her automatically. It was a moment before either realized their nearness to one another.

Now that his hands rested on her back he could feel the thinness of her nightgown, his cheek burned in the wake of her lips; it was almost entirely too much. His response came swiftly and without thought he buried his hand in her hair, pulling her into a kiss. He did not know how long they stood there, but it felt like an eternity; each gentle pressure, each movement whittled down his control until he ripped himself from her with sudden force. She let out a mewl of disappointment at the severance. "I—I am dreadfully sorry but I have a great deal of work to get through before I can sleep and we must depart early tomorrow." the melodic beauty of his voice had become a sharp rasp. She smiled in acknowledgment and gave him one last kiss before turning back to the vanity. Christine stared at her reflection in a daze, _why had he broken off their kiss? Did he no longer desire her? Had he not found her pleasing?_ She doused the gas lantern and threw herself onto the bed in frustration, becoming aware of the churning sensation of unfulfillment pooling in her lower abdomen. _How many more chaste kisses can one endure before going mad? Certainly not many more, I am on the precipice..._ She thought as her hands began exploring her body unconsciously.

 _It was a lie._ There was nothing urgent in need of his attention. He leaned against the wall outside of her room, trying to compose himself, still unable to erase the image of her from his mind. _That nightgown... practically translucent._ If he had thought that night they shared would soothe his longing, he was altogether mistaken; if anything, it only strengthened it. He now knew Adam's pain when he had sampled the sweet flesh of proscribed fruit and he was powerless to halt the debauched images hounding his mind. _Did she know the suffering each touch, each kiss, each caress brought unto him? No, she couldn't possibly._ Still breathless and deafened by his racing heartbeat, he groped his way down the hall to his room. _How had it happened last time?_ It continued to baffle him and he considered it a fluke, fortunate as it had been. He was not foolish enough to delude himself that _it could..._ that _she would want him a second time. Even so, was he sure it had happened at all? The entire thing had been like a dream._ It would be the height of arrogance to assume he now held some sort of claim over her body, that he could possess it whenever he wished... _God, he wanted nothing more in the world right now._ Erik thought as he removed his waistcoat and unbuttoned his shirt. Silently he sank into the armchair and gave himself to his sinful imaginings.

Christine looked through the glass that overlooked the racecourse. It hadn't been very long since Erik and Reginald had left her company to discuss business with some aristocratic associate or another. She had only agreed to attend today's event for Erik's sake. Despite having been in London for months, she still found their Season thoroughly baffling.

As the Vicomtesse de Chagny, she had only been forced to endure a single one before Raoul departed on his commission and even that had been relatively uneventful. She and Raoul had attended a few dinners and balls but never a trip to the theatre or God forbid— _opera_ ; really it wasn't much different from what they normally did. However, ever since her arrival in London she had been an active participant in The Season of 1873. Now, gazing through the glass on the day of Ascot's most prestigious annual race, she reflected on the irony of this. _Who would have guessed that she would spend more time in the social spotlight on the arm of a man who had once hid from the world in shadow than she had with a charming, young French noble with the world at his feet?_

Perhaps part of it was that she still felt like an outsider. _She was._ True, her English had drastically improved and she could carry on simple conversations with ease, albeit with a thick accent. Erik spoke fluently and had no trouble with English customs or traditions. _No, that wasn't what bothered her._ What really worried her is that someone would uncover her past and destroy the lives of Erik and her friends by association. _How could she bear the guilt of causing Erik more pain?_ The papers had never released Raoul's name and had noted her dead as well but she still lived in constant fear that someone like Elizabeth would connect the dots and expose her.

Standing there alone in the Queen's Box, Christine felt incredibly vulnerable and desperately wished either Annabelle or William were in her company. She tried to distance herself as much as possible from the crowd until Erik returned and her efforts were successful until her introspection was rudely interrupted by an unknown man's voice.

"You've the correct idea, miss. The self-importance in this box is suffocating, however this window does not open; I'm afraid we must do without fresh air." Startled, Christine automatically turned to face whomever had spoken. To her left stood a tall man around Erik's age; bits of wavy, seal brown hair were visible under his top hat he was very handsome. "Sir John Norton. Forgive me, but I don't believe I've seen you here before." She looked at him curiously, he seemed very self-assured and his eyes held a certain sparkle of mischief retained from youth. It was odd, but a way he reminded her of a less serious Erik. "Christine de Chagny." she replied, offering her hand. Sir John took it and kissed it lightly.

"The pomp and circumstance can be mundane, however the race is always quite exciting." he said in French, surveying the course below. She looked at him in surprise. _Who was this man?_ "You speak French?" she asked incredulously. "Do you prefer English? I am equally fluent in both." he said with a smirk. She shook her head. "Excellent. I'm rarely afforded an opportunity utilize my skill." Suddenly there was a loud crack and the race began. _Where was Erik?_ "Your husband is missing the race, I hope he bet wisely. I am not the type to gamble, but if I'm to be honest, I did place a small sum on Cremorne." he said watching the horses.

Christine did not know what possessed her to speak, but she did so nonetheless. "I am widowed." she replied aloofly. _Yes, she was widowed and yet she had nearly forgotten her dear husband._ She swallowed the lump of guilt that arose in her throat. Sir John looked at her, "Oh dear, I'm dreadfully sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm afraid I cast a pall over the event." he said apologetically. "Would you prefer me to leave you be?" Christine shook her head, she was rather enjoying his presence. "Ah, well a change of subject is in order then. Are you attending Lord Howe's ball later this week?" She nodded, "Yes. Why do you ask?" He smiled cheekily, "Simply curiosity, miss. But, I was also rather hoping for a dance."

She stared straight ahead, wondering again who this man was. He was incredibly bold but very charming. "Should you be watching the race to see how your horse fares?" He chuckled, "Ah, the outcome is in the Lord's hands. Besides, your beauty overshadows the event and I would much rather continue our conversation." Before she had a chance to reply, she heard a voice from behind her.

"Enjoying Ladies' Day, my dear?" Erik asked. _Was that a hint of annoyance?_ Sir John and Christine turned around simultaneously. She hoped that Erik had not heard what Sir John had said or consider their interaction to be inappropriate. She felt a small sting of fear deep within her gut when she remembered how jealous and possessive he had become back at the Opera Populaire. _No, he had changed, he was that man no longer. But what about Lawrence?_ The chill running through her intensified when she recalled what he had said to William that night when he thought she was out of earshot.

She wanted to cry out when Sir John boldly faced Erik. "Madame de Chagny, do you know this man? I do say, sir, this is not the Dark Ages and you cannot simply grab a lady by the hand and take her away. Besides, you would be interrupting the riveting conversation she and I are having."

Christine wanted to sink into the ground, to get far away from the inevitable confrontation she had caused. Erik spoke before she could, "The Lady de Chagny is my escort for the event. You've a lot of nerve, Norton. I see your trip to the continent hasn't dulled your impudence. Perhaps you returned too soon… You had better take care to not land yourself in trouble your father cannot fix." he spoke deliberately, his words oozing with contempt. It was clear he was trying to control his temper.

The other man's eyes narrowed but he held his tongue. They paused for a moment, each staring at the other. Then Erik turned, "Christine, darling, if you would not mind… There are some people I would like to introduce you to." He started to walk away and Christine went to follow him but they both stopped dead when Sir John spoke again. "You may find you can impose your will upon your employees, Leroux, but this is not your concert hall. I am sure Lady de Chagny would prefer to finish her conversation with me. Not to worry, dear chap, I will return her to before the event ends." She grimaced. If his previous comments hadn't sealed his fate, this certainly would.

She wished to be anywhere but there and wondered if Sir John knew who he had just challenged. Christine looked away as Erik approached the other man. She waited for the sound, the same stomach-turning crunch she heard when he hit Lawrence. But it never came, instead she heard laughter.

"Steady on, dear chap! For a moment I believed you were actually going to hit me…" Sir John said with a chuckle. Erik looked at him quizzically before returning a smile, "I had honestly considered it." For some reason, this only made Sir John laugh more. A moment ago, Christine had been certain her new acquaintance would be taught a rather harsh lesson, but now she beheld both men with confusion. It was obvious they knew one another… _But were they friends?_ From what she could recall, he had never mentioned a Sir John Norton to her. Noting her puzzlement, Erik took her hand and pulled her closer, "Christine, this is Sir John Norton, a solicitor, theatre manager, and good friend of mine. He has been on the Continent handling business of mine for the past year. I would introduce you two further, but it appears you've already met." he said looking at his friend. "Indeed we have, at any rate, I am glad to have been given occasion to keep my French sharp."

"Your French is appalling, John." countered Erik. His friend ignored him, "As the day is rapidly coming to a close, what do you say to dinner at my house tomorrow?" he asked as people began filing out of the box. "That sounds lovely, does it not, Erik?" Christine replied. "Yes, quite so… Will you endeavor to provide us with a time?" John smiled, "Of course! We shall meet at the club tomorrow for luncheon to discuss business, I will give you a time then." Erik's visible brown furrowed and he gave a curt nod. "Very well."

The carriage ride home was quiet as it usually was, but Erik seemed more preoccupied than was standard. As they rounded Erik's street, she finally asked if anything was troubling him. Without turning to look at her, he began to speak with trepidation, "Christine, if I decided to—would you … that is, if John has managed…" but he was interrupted by the halting of the carriage. "Whatever are you trying to say, Erik?" He reached out and squeezed her hand, "Oh, it's—it's nothing. I shall ask at a later date." He could sense something on the horizon, something ominous, but he could put no name to it at present. After a moment the feeling passed so swiftly he was not entirely sure he hadn't imagined it...

During that exact fraction of a minute his normally preternatural perceptiveness deserted him and he failed to notice the short, balding man who paused in his walk, paused and looked directly at Erik's house. If he had seen that man, he would have known the source of his discomfort in the omen of that man's rotund little form.

He cursed himself for allowing such superstitious folly into his mind and, trying to break free from the grasp of promised doom, turned to Christine. "Oh, Christine, that does remind me… I have something for you, a surprise of sorts." She smiled at him like a child promised a present. There was an intense look in his eyes and he bent as if to kiss her, but quickly shied away. "However, it will have to wait until later. Excuse me..." Erik popped into his study and emerged clutching a velvet pouch; upon seeing her, he hastily tucked it into his jacket. "I must make a call first." She nodded affectionately, watching as he disappeared out the door again. Once he had gone, her smile quickly shriveled, she still couldn't erase from her mind the fear and uncertainty she saw in Erik's eyes as they exited the carriage; had she not beheld it with her own, she wouldn't have believed it possible.

"Ah, Monsieur Cartier, what a pleasure to meet you! I trust your trip was pleasant?" There was a small nod and smile in response and both men spent a short time discussing Parisian life before matters turned back to business. "As you understand, Monsieur, it is not customary for me to travel outside the comfort of my shop. However, when I saw the designs you had sent me, I was most intrigued. All original thoughts?" It was Erik's turn to nod. "I could create such a piece myself but I'm afraid I do not have the time nor the wish to take up metallurgy... " Cartier laughed. "I require something truly unique, unparalleled, and I believe you can help me with this." The man traced the design before him thoughtfully. "This arrangement is remarkable... Yes, yes. It should not be a problem in the least. You said you already have the gems?" In response, Erik removed the velvet pouch from his jacket and carefully dumped the contents onto the table between them, earning an astonished gasp from his guest. "Now, the only matter left to discuss is when it will be ready." There was a brief pause and he wondered if the jeweler had heard him. "I would estimate it to be ready in two months time, Monsieur." he said with diffidence, noting the masked man's disapproval. "Two months is longer than I had expected." Cartier offered a timid gesture of supplication, he had the distinct impression that ending up outside of this man's good graces could prove grave. "This is a very ambitious project, Monsieur. Please understand, acquiring the metal, cutting and setting the stones, it will take time. But, I will personally send a telegram when it is completed." This seemed to calm his client a bit. Erik adjusted his jacket and shifted in his seat, "Very good, Monsieur Cartier. Now, let us discuss the payment..."


	17. Another Dinner

**Thanks for the reviews! I recently read Susan Kay's, _Phantom_ , and wow. Needless to say, it put me in a bit of a creative mood and sort of renewed my writing. Right now I have about 5 chapters I am sitting on that are completed or very nearly so; including the next two, yay! **

**If anybody is wondering about the time line, I've been using big events of the London Season as markers. In case you aren't familiar, we left off at Royal Ascot. Raoul and Christine came over in April and she and Erik were reunited late that month; there was a month-long concert program, meaning it concluded in late May; Royal Ascot occurs in June (I can't find an exact date for the year, but let's call it second week of June), that means a week later will put us in the third week of June.  
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 **I don't own anything, you know the drill.  
**

Erik's surprise turned out to be that he had hired Dorothy as Christine's lady's maid. "If you are to stay here, with me, I thought it proper that you should have your own maid, especially with _The Season_ in full effect…" he had said that evening. The contempt with which he referred to the Social Season brought a relieved smile to her face, she had thought the discomfort brought about by the public eye was some fault of hers. _With Raoul it had seemed so..._ Erik had always been collected during these outings, but now she realized that it was just an facade. _Could he possibly share her same feeling of awkward unbelonging despite his success?_

Christine did not have long to muse; as if on cue, Dorothy appeared in the room. She could not deny the delight in seeing that familiar freckled face, wide smile, and bright crimson hair. Later, as she watched the young girl check each of her dresses, her gladness yielded to a pang of disappointment that her gift hadn't been a ring; she instantly regretted this idea.

 _Why was she so presumptuous? They had shared one night together, but she was no stranger to biblical love; he had hardly robbed her of her innocence. Since he appeared to be in no hurry to repeat the experience, it was just as likely a singular event, the inevitable outcome of her reckless grief and years of unspoken feelings. Besides—if anything, Erik slavishly upheld notions of propriety and would wait until an acceptable period of mourning had passed. Her husband, her love, had died... with her own eyes, she watched him slip into the hellish delirium preceding death. Is this how she should repay his sacrifice? It was bad enough that she had been intimate with another man, let alone to expect—to want_ _ _—_ him to wed her? Would he even take her as a bride after their history together? He was not the type to forgive easily and she had committed the ultimate betrayal of a trust he seldom accorded; she was positive he had pardoned her for certain things, but even she was aware that his fierce adoration had been replaced by a mild but amiable aloofness. The most painful part was that she was unequivocally responsible. Once Erik would have done anything, gone anywhere—he would have carved his own heart out or killed—for her. Here, the ultimate proof of a loyalty so rarely given to a scornful world and with the selfish, ignorant flippancy of a child, she had wantonly discarded it. She had chosen the fairy-tale purely because it was easier, more dazzling, and now it was agonizingly clear that Raoul's love paled in comparison to her Angel's. Well-bred, wealthy, handsome, charismatic Raoul, beloved by family and friends, desired by women; he had never known hardship or rejection. How could the two have been equal? How could Raoul possibly have offered her the unbridled devotion of a man who had never known kindness, friendship, or affection? Raoul had loved her intensely, yes, but he could never appreciate the profundity of the emotion. Erik had been…_

"Your Ladyship?" The soft words of her maid brought an abrupt end to the trance. "Beg your pardon, but are feeling alright? Only you looked to have a turn…" the girl continued with concern. Christine smiled at her. "Oh, yes! I was just daydreaming, forgive me. And, how many times must I tell you, Dorothy? Call me Christine, please! I am no longer a Vicomtesse." Dorothy held out the dress she was inspecting, " _Daydreaming about a handsome gentleman?_ " she asked nonchalantly, focusing on the stitching. "That's enough, Dorothy! You may call me by my first name, but I won't tolerate shameless impertinence!" Their eyes met and both dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"What'll you be wearing to Sir John's dinner tomorrow?" Christine sighed, "Well, it's not a very formal event. It's my understanding that it's hardly a dinner party and more so a gathering of close friends. I shouldn't have a problem wearing something I've already worn and there is no need to do anything elaborate with my hair either." The maid nodded, "No, it won't be big, not like Lord Tweeddale's ball next week."

Christine looked up from the book she had been pretending to read, "What ball?" she asked in surprise. "I'm sorry! I thought you knew…" _How could she have forgotten? She had spoken to Sir John about it just yesterday._ "Well, don't worry, Monsieur Leroux already gave me everything." Dorothy gestured to a box resting neatly at the top of the wardrobe and dragged the vanity chair over to get it down. The two spent nearly half an hour admiring the fine viridian silk of the garment until Dorothy's small face lit up. "Oh, that reminds me! I am also to give you this…" The little maid rushed off to the chest of drawers and returned holding a box made from some exotic burled wood; she placed it on the vanity where Christine could examine it.

Her first thought was how exquisitely beautiful the work was; the ribbons and water lilies were expertly carved, in the center of each flower rested a singular pink pearl. She traced them dreamily with her finger, admiring the smooth uniformity of each line. But the spectacular woodwork appeared dull in contrast to the top of the box: an ocean scene seamlessly inlaid into the wood within a border of filigreed gold. Within the waters of azurite enamel, swam several types of sea creatures in a variety of colors, both enamel and stone; they were comprised of carnelian, agate, rose quartz, malachite, tourmaline, and several other gems she couldn't name. Bold oysters rested on the onyx rocks, each beset with a pearl. Mermaids floated amidst jade curtains of seaweed, their amber hair flowed around their mother of pearl bodies and tails of gem opal; each wore a different color circlet of tiny gemstones. The focal point of the cloisonné, perched atop a crop of onyx, was King Triton's castle; it was mainly moonstone but the top of each tower was gilded and beset with a diamond and at the pinnacle of the tallest tower sat a unique stone, deep blue with a star in the center. King Triton was there too, in all his glory, his tiger's eye beard and gold trident gleaming brightly in contrast with the coolness of his amazonite tail.

"It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed in child-like wonder. Dorothy nodded, "That it is, but wait until you see inside." _Inside?_ She stared at the box dumbly, she had been so enamored of its exterior that she hadn't bothered to consider what it might contain. The maid waited patiently for her to open it but after examining it for several minutes she could find no way to do so. "How do you open it?" she asked in frustration. "Oh, right! I had forgotten to show you..." The maid put her finger on the curious blue stone and pressed gently, causing the center water lily to fall open and reveal four white lacquer keys, she showed Christine the proper order in which to push them; they formed a dainty tonal sequence. _Amazing!_

When the box first opened, Christine let out a gasp. She remained staring in slack-jawed awe for several minutes. Dorothy had been right, the outside of the box was nothing compared to the treasures within; nestled in midnight blue satin sat a vast array of jewellery. _It was a jewellery box..._ There were brooches, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and hair pins; diamonds and pearls of nearly every color, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, aquamarines, amethysts, and turquoise. The box alone was worth a small fortune but the jewels had to be priceless. She recognized the necklace and earrings Erik had given her before, as well as the diamonds she received from Raoul; the latter seemed vulgar in the company of so many extraordinary pieces. The next several hours were spent trying on each item, both she and Dorothy fawning over every one until Christine glanced at the clock on the mantel; it was nearly midnight! As she laid in bed, she felt a surge of guilt. _How could she ever hope to repay Erik for such a gift?_

The question continued to weigh on her mind well into the next day. _At the very least, she had to thank him._ She chose her moment on the carriage ride to John's. "Erik..." she began, freezing when he turned his head and their eyes met. "I—I uh... Dorothy showed me your gift last night. Thank you, I've never seen anything so beautiful." _Ugh, the words sounded moronic when spoken aloud._ He smirked, "Then you've surely not seen yourself tonight." She blushed intensely at his compliment. "Wherever did you find it all? _The box? The jewellery?_ " she asked, if she did not change the subject, she was sure she would faint. He eyed her quizzically, "The box was my own creation." There was a note of hurt in his words and she felt incredibly foolish for not having identified something only his mind could have conceived. "As for the jewellery, you needn't worry; it was not intended for a previous lover and none of it's cursed." His joke was lighthearted but cynical. " _But where did it all come from?_ I've never seen some of those stones before!" she demanded with childish impatience.

"Here and there..." Noting her disappointment he continued, "Perhaps I should elaborate? I acquired most of the gems and pieces during my travels, before ... _taking up residence_ in the opera house. I collected jewels and other finery over the years—some I had set, others came to me completed— _for... in the hopes that_ one day I would find a recipient for such things." She couldn't help feel a stab of pity at his reply. _What a cruel injustice it was that such an ingenious and passionate man had known far too little love in his lifetime._

When they arrived at Sir John's residence, Christine found it extremely similar to the various other houses they had visited over the course of the last few months. Once inside, she was relieved to discover Dorothy's assertion was correct; there were only a handful of guests, including a certain petite blonde. "Annabelle! I had no idea you had returned from Scotland." Annabelle squealed and threw her arms around Christine in a friendly but undignified display. "Yes! We got back in two days ago. I would have called, but I was so dreadfully tired that I'm afraid I slept the entire time." She was elated at Annabelle's return, only now realizing how dull and lonely it had been the past two weeks.

Not much could have ruined Christine's mood that night, even so the dinner was delicious and Sir John played a great host. Her only regret was that she saw far too little of Erik over the course of the evening; he kept close company with both Reginald and John, but she accepted this as the consequence of business. Once the gentlemen had separated to smoke and play cards, Annabelle and Christine took the opportunity to gossip and catch up. "I think George means to propose!" Annabelle said giggling excitedly. "Oh, that's wonderful! Congratulations!" Christine effused, trying to banish the ugly thought from the previous night. _Back at the opera house, Erik had been eager to make her his bride, what had changed? Did he no longer love her with the same intensity after that night?_

Despite her best efforts, Annabelle seemed to read her mind. "Oh, Christine, don't fret! I am positive Erik will ask you; knowing him he will insist on building a church just for the occasion. But, you must understand he is very guarded because of... _well, I'm sure you can imagine._ He loves you more than anything, though." Christine could only smile in reply, hoping her friend's words would prove true. That night in the warm confines of her bed she dreamt of wedding bells and exiting the church as Madame Leroux on the arm of her Angel.


	18. The Challenge

**This chapter required me to do a fair bit of research and even so, I am not sure I've got things completely right. Anyways, it's a pretty eventful one! It also sets the stage for later chapters, including one that should be pretty fulfilling. Also, what could be this terrible event on the horizon? Props for guesses! :D**

 **This chapter and the next one were originally all one big thing, but they sort of got a little too long and I ended up dividing them into two and then into three parts. But no worries! It just means a good amount of updates are on the way...**

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Annabelle visited nearly every day in the week before the Marquess' ball; it was welcome company because the house had been incredibly lonely, she had seen Erik only a few times and most of them glances as he came and went. No doubt he was busy as usual, but she couldn't help the childish notion that he was avoiding her.

The day of the ball arrived not a moment too soon; just when his absence had become physically uncomfortable. Christine gladly found herself in the divine viridian silk of her evening gown. Dorothy had piled her hair atop her head, leaving two thick curls trailing in the back and smaller tendrils cascading down her temples; for further emphasis, she had placed small white roses within her chocolate tresses. However, the only thing Christine could think about was the mysterious jewellery box and which piece she would choose to wear tonight. No sooner had she made her choice, then Mrs. Foley came upstairs to retrieve her for a waiting Erik. _What would he say when he saw her wearing it?_

In her senselessness, she hadn't expected him to be waiting at the base of the stairs. How many times had he been waiting in the carriage or the parlor? Why did he pick tonight? She blushed and averted her eyes as soon as she saw him, impeccably dressed, handsome, tall, powerful; _how had she failed to make note of just how attractive he was? If she had, maybe she wouldn't be shaking like an idiot and redder than—_

Erik had been mulling over the note he had received earlier in the week, eventually deciding to ignore it, when she emerged. Right away he was thankful his hands were empty or he would have most certainly repeated his blunder from Annabelle's ball. There was no more air in the room. He couldn't breathe. His eyes swept up her body from foot to head, at last coming to rest on her face; she had flushed and looked away under his gaze. Somehow, this residual coyness only made her more alluring. As she reached the bottom of the stairs he held out his hand, taking hers and placing a kiss on the back of it; he was grateful this action permitted him to close his mouth, which had been agape ever since she had stepped into view. "You look very fetching, my dear." _Idiot. Why had he underplayed her beauty so drastically?_

During the carriage ride to the ball, he had never been so thankful for his freakish ability to see in the dark and took the time to savor each detail of her appearance. He longed to tell her just how breathtaking she looked but did not know how. _How he sorely regretted his decision to keep away from her after that kiss in her room..._ but looking at her now, it's necessity was painfully apparent. It was a blessing when they pulled up in front of the Marquess' residence, otherwise he was tempted to ruin her new dress and hours of Dorothy's hard work.

Only when they walked in together and he saw the cleared room, heard the string quartet, did he remember that it was a ball. _That meant..._ Could he endure an entire evening dancing with, _touching_ , her? And yet, he would have to find a way to do so because he could not bear to hand her off to another man; his reasoning was not borne in possessiveness, but rather in an overwhelming yearning to be close to her.

They joined the rest of the guests and were predictably approached by Annabelle, George, and William; the latter was obviously eager to escape from the sappy glances and coy smiles of young love. "Christine! You look incredible!" Annabelle squeaked, turning her attention from George to kiss her on the cheek. "Erik cannot keep his eyes off of you!" she whispered. "Shh, Annabelle!" The girl only smiled impishly, "Oh, he cannot possibly hear us, he's talking to William and George." Christine had her doubts; she thought back to the Opera Populaire, her Angel had always exhibited supernatural hearing. _Was it just her imagination or did Erik shift slightly after Annabelle's comment?_

The blonde was about to continue when George whisked her away to dance. As Christine rejoined the conversation between Erik, William, and the newly arrived Sir John and Reginald, Annabelle's words from the previous week dominated her mind. _Would he really propose? 'He would probably insist on building a church for the occasion... He loves you more than anything,' she had said._ C _ould it be, well she hoped it was, true?_

"Madame de Chagny?" She blinked stupidly at hearing her name, how long had she been lost in her dream-world? "If it is not too bold of me, I believe you did agree to honor me with a dance." John said. Christine looked at Erik, who nodded his approval, and soon she was on the floor dancing to a rather lively Viennese Waltz with the handsome Sir John Norton. He was a good dancer but no match for Erik's skillful grace; still she enjoyed herself.

It took her a moment to notice that the song was over and a familiar strong yet elegant hand was on her shoulder. "I was wondering if you would care to dance with me; only you look so preoccupied I do not know if I should interrupt." Erik smirked, relishing in her obvious stupefaction. _What could she possibly be thinking about?_

Christine inwardly cursed herself for being so dozy tonight. _What a fool she must look like!_ There was a lull before the next song and only now was she aware just how fixedly he was staring at her. As the melody started and they began dancing, the look only grew in intensity. "It appears, dear Annabelle was right after all, I cannot keep my eyes off of you." She felt her cheeks redden, "It's just—I hope you can forgive me for my earlier assertion. When I first saw you this evening I was not at all prepared for the level of divine beauty I beheld. But, even then, from afar I could not appreciate its magnitude; the closer I get, the more breathless I become, I am a mortal standing in front of an apparition of a goddess, utterly captivated." His voice was soft, yet perfectly audible over the music; with every word, she fell deeper into his trance. If Christine had believed her face was hot before, she was sorely mistaken. After Erik's compliment, she was worried she might incinerate on the spot like a phoenix.

She was hopelessly lost in his arms as they whirled around the floor together; for a time she was convinced that she had somehow ascended into Heaven, where only her Angel existed. _The feel of her in his arms, the frustrating innocence of her hand in his, the tender look in those large brown eyes..._ were even more torturous than previously thought and yet as excruciating as it was he could not step away, not even when his desire threatened to consume him. They continued like this, song after song, completely disorientated in each others company. Christine was surprised but thankful that no other gentlemen had asked for a dance. Unbeknownst to her, several had considered asking the stunning young brunette but none wanted to disturb a couple who were so obviously besotted.

Once again Christine pictured herself as Erik's wife; the wedding would be perfect, _he would see to that_. He would build them a house somewhere in the country, a large estate with immaculate gardens and plenty of land where their children could play. _Children?_ She remembered how she was unable to get pregnant with Raoul, much to his family's chagrin. Raoul being the sweet, caring husband he was, never let it bother him and assured her God would bless them one day; besides they were very young and had many years ahead to start a family. _Would it be different with Erik? Did he even want children?_ The immense pride evoked from the thought of bearing Erik, her Angel, a perfect son or daughter was overwhelming; she was sure their children would be perfect, despite his fears about his face, and even if they did inherit his disfigurement, her love would be unaffected. _Oh God, children? How could she think of such things when he hadn't even proposed… when it hadn't even been a year after Raoul's death?_

She was ripped from the promising peace of her imaginings when they abruptly stopped moving. "Are you feeling alright, my dear? You've been acting inconscient since we've arrived." he asked, worriedly observing Christine's glazed look of detachment. "Oh, yes, I am fine. I was just caught up in my thoughts. Is the dancing finished?" He shook his head, "No. I believe the musicians are taking a short break. In the meantime, would you like some refreshments?" She smiled, realizing how parched she was from nearly an hour of dancing. Erik took this to be an indicator of accession and led her over to the table with food and drink. While sipping a glass of champagne, she returned to her previous fantasies as Madame Leroux, it then dawned on her: _Maybe he was hesitant to propose because he was unsure if she loved him. Had she ever told him?_ She couldn't recall, but felt the pressing need to do so. As she opened her mouth to declare her love, she heard a booming voice behind her and quickly closed it. _Damn! So close…_

She did not have to turn to know it was Lord Tweeddale. "I trust you two are enjoying the ball, I must say that you look extremely becoming, Madame de Chagny, it's no small wonder why our dear Monsieur Leroux is enamored of you." He did not seem to notice the awkward blush that stained both of their cheeks and continued, "Ah, it is too quiet around here! Erik, my boy, would you accord me the honor of playing until the musicians return? Do you know Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 1?" Erik looked from the elderly man to Christine, who smiled her silent approval. "Yes, of course. I would be glad to play for you and your guests, Lord Tweeddale." The round-faced man thanked Erik and clapped him on the back, as he was prone to doing.

Upon the Marquess' announcement that the famous Monsieur Leroux would be gracing them all with a piano sonata, the room became incredibly crowded. Lords and ladies craned their necks to get a better view of the mysterious musical genius who hid half his face in shadow; there were hushed whispers and murmurs of excitement but the room dissolved into dead silence once the first note sounded.  
Christine let herself be swept up by Erik's music. She watched his long fingers elegantly command the keys and was briefly jealous, remembering the time when those same fingers were exploring and coaxing music from her own body; it was eerie how her body unintentionally responded to his playing, her sensuality awakened with each note, and she was struck by how much she wanted him. She was all too sorry when the piece had ended, wishing it could last an eternity. _She wanted to kiss him, to fall into his arms, to be taken by him..._ Patiently, she waited until the crowd had dispersed before saying anything but she never got the chance, there was a loud slow clap that filled her with terror. When she heard the man's voice, she knew exactly why. Behind Erik stood Lord Hinton, his once comely face altered by the awkward angle of his jaw. He was not alone, by his side was another man, slightly older with mousy brown hair and the same haughty look. "Bravo, Monsieur. A masterful performance, _as always..._ "

By the sudden ferocity of Erik's expression it seemed he too knew who had offered congratulations; he silently rose to his feet and turned. "Lord Hinton, you are the last person I had expected to be here. Please enlighten me as to the reason for your appearance..." the savagery in his voice struck fear into Christine's heart. "Yes, admittedly, I have not been able to participate very much in The Season, a broken jaw makes such things difficult. I merely came tonight to inquire as to why you've ignored my repeated notes. I do hope you are not so intimidated that you would resort to cowardice." He now spoke with a slight lisp. _What notes? What was Laurence on about? He must be mistaken, Erik hadn't told her about any contact from the Viscount._

"I am not to be trifled with, _boy_. Walk away and I will forget this ever happened." Erik said dangerously. By now a few people had heard the commotion and flitted into the room, including John and Reginald; one look at the grim faces of Erik's two friends revealed that she hadn't been mistaken, they clearly knew something. " _Need I remind you, Leroux..._ you will forsake your honor and reputation in your refusal, unless you offer an apology. Since you are in possession of no title and your position in society is determined by public favor, a blight to your honor will be irreparable." Laurence smiled wickedly, he clearly did not know whom he was toying with.

"You will get no such pleasure from me, Lord Hinton, and I will offer you nothing. _Need I remind you, Paulding..._ I struck you in retaliation for your attempted dishonor of Madame de Chagny and her good name." _So this was about that night at the Dowager's... she had a sick feeling that it might come back to haunt them, especially after William's reaction._ _What was it that Laurence wanted from Erik? Money? The satisfaction of Erik pleading for absolution?_ "If you were a true gentleman you would know that striking another, especially your social superior, is flagrant disregard for The Code of Honor. I'll have you know that I am a forgiving man, Leroux. I will offer you an alternative that will allow you to maintain your honor and, at the same time, avoid the duel you so fear; simply offer me your cane and ask your pardon while I give you the appropriate amount of blows." _Was he mad? Why would Lord Hinton suggest something so demeaning? Surely this would be the final insult, given Erik's past abuses._

Christine could have sworn in that moment she saw the long, thin rope of the Punjab lasso emerge from Erik's jacket and Laurence fell dead on the spot, but when she blinked the image was gone. Laurence stood there, very much alive, unwisely delighting in his taunting of Erik. The murderous glint in the latter's eye was conspicuous and she could scarcely imagine how he was able to exercise restraint. " _Very well, boy..._ if it is a duel you want, you shall have it. Pistols or swords?" Erik hissed. For a moment, Laurence looked afraid but it quickly dissolved into vicious glee. "Pistols, naturally. And whom will serve as your second, Leroux?" At once, John stepped forward, "I will act as second and provide the weapons." he answered derisively. "As you already know, Sir Edgar is my second, expect to hear from him tomorrow so that we may choose a location and then... _pistols at dawn, Leroux!_ " The man beside him nodded. Laurence added a last grand gesture for effect and turned towards the exit.

Erik scowled violently and turned on his heel so fast that Christine took a minute to process he had left. She stood rooted to the spot, dumbfounded at the recent turn of events. The night had been almost perfect until Laurence had shown up and ruined everything. _Why did he have to choose this moment to re-enter their lives?_ Then it hit her what exactly had transpired and she was gripped by a sickening wave of fear... _Lord Hinton had challenged Erik to a duel and he had accepted._ She remembered that morning in the cemetery when Raoul and Erik had fought, how Raoul had almost... _Would this situation be the same?_ _No. They were using guns, which made it even worse. She had to put a stop to this, somehow._

Still dizzy but determined, Christine followed the general direction Erik had gone. She wasn't at all familiar with the Marquess' house but luckily she did not have to search for long, she could hear raised voices coming from the drawing room. "I did not think that little worm would be so bold. It's too bad he did not choose to fight with swords..." came John's voice. A disdainful chuckle was the only reply, and taking advantage of the lapse in conversation, Christine slipped into the room. "Erik, please. _Don't do this... you can't do this!_ " she cried, unable to hold herself in check any longer.

Both men spun around to face her, the shock on their faces would have been almost comical if the circumstances weren't so dire. Erik's temper cooled slightly at the sight of her. "I'm afraid it is regrettably too late for arriere-pensee, my dear." _Her sentiment was touching, but he wished she hadn't followed him; he knew she would fight him on this tooth and nail._ "No, Erik. I refuse to accept that. There's another way, there must be! _Can you simply choose to not indulge such a gruesome request?_ Surely—"

"It's not for me to decide, Christine. I should never have struck him." he said, irritation rising. "Nonsense! _I—I will never forgive you if you do this, Erik!_ " He sighed, his eyes softening with the passion of her concern, "There is no call for melodrama, Christine." _Absolutely unbelievable! Did he want to participate in this blood sport?_ Seeing Erik would not be persuaded, Christine confronted John. " _And you!_ _You are going to allow this barbarism?!_ " she snapped. "My dear lady, we do not live in the time of gladiators or knights, this is not the savage display you think it to be, there are strict rules." _The nerve! She thought Sir John better than to downplay something of this magnitude._ She was about to tell him as much when Erik spoke. "Frankly, your lack of faith in my skill is quite injurious." he interjected with a smirk.

This was the final nail in the coffin. The cavalier attitude with which both John and Erik responded to this challenge was repugnant. _Did he not understand in all his infernal arrogance, that he could very well be killed? Where would that leave her then?!_ Christine knew she could say no more without loosing her rage onto the both of them so she quickly left the room before saying something she would lament. She felt the hot tears welling up and longed to disappear; in her emotional flight, she failed to see the old round man in the hall, nearly running smack into him. "My God, I am so sorry, Lord Tweeddale! I must not have seen you..." she confessed hastily, praying he did not notice her tear-filled eyes. From the look on the old man's face, her prayers were not answered. Her mind stumbled over explanations for her current state of distress, but she came up with nothing. "My dear child, what on earth—" Fortunately, he never finished the thought. The Lord had answered her and sent her a savior; she shrunk a little when she realized just who it was.

"Lord Tweeddale, if I may have a moment, I feel I must ask your forgiveness for the abhorrent display that took place this evening. The matter should have been settled elsewhere, if there is something I can do to show you the depth of my remorse... " Erik said with grave sincerity. Lord Tweeddale looked at the younger man with esteem, "You are truly an upstanding character, my boy. The fault lies with Lord Hinton, he knows better than to behave in such a basal manner; you need not offer an apology. However, while we are on the subject, I will accept a favor." There was a flicker of hesitance as Erik quickly glanced at Christine. _What favor was the old man about to ask of him and why did he look so unnerved?  
_

Erik raised his brow, "Of course. Anything..." _Why had he blindly agreed to something?_ Christine could not see his expression because his back was to her, but she saw him cringe when the request was made. "Well, my idiot nephew has turned out to be a poor theatre manager and the only thing he has managed thus far is to chase off his two principal leads..." Erik felt the cold dread wash over his entire body, _he knew what was coming..._ He should have guessed by the man's reaction the night of the Dowager Countess' dinner party. _Why on earth had he consented impulsively?_ "It would delight my old heart endlessly if yourself and Madame de Chagny were to perform in the July production of _La Traviata_. It will by no means be a permanent position... Although if you two sing as you did that one night, I daresay they shall offer you both contracts! So, what do you say, dear boy?"

 _Just as horrible as he had feared. How could he be expected to control himself around Christine, to keep himself from...? It would be like, Don Juan Triumphant, all over again, pushing him past the point of no return until he gave into his salacious urges. Damn! Why hadn't he thought to at least ask her and present the ring later? Idiot, idiot, idiot!_ He did his best to keep his voice even, "I have no objections, if Madame de Chagny finds it satisfactory." he looked at her, silently hoping she would find the idea as offensive as he had; no such luck. "I would be delighted!" Christine said, a selfish sense of euphoria bubbling up inside of her. She ignored the brief spark of doom in his eyes upon her acceptance. _This was a dream borne into reality. Secretly she had wished to sing with Erik as they had back at the Opera Populaire, even after the disaster, after the music had left her; she knew only his presence could reawaken her voice._ She smiled dreamily, almost forgetting the horrors of the last half hour. _Soon enough she would be on stage with her Angel once again and none of this would matter..._


	19. The Duel

**Uh-oh, Laurence returned and he's out for revenge... How will that turn out? Well, you'll find out if you keep reading but let me have my moment of building suspense, lol.**

 **So, I read through The Code of Honor and the** _ **Code Duello**_ **extensively and needless to say it was very confusing! So. Many. Rules. And. Exceptions. Anyways, so I sort of melded the two together. In both, if a gentleman feels he is insulted, there must be an effort to seek an apology from the man who has committed the wrong. However, hitting another gentleman is NEVER acceptable (whoops, Erik). Striking a fellow gentleman was a very serious offense, but so was attempting to rape a lady under a gentleman's protection (Christine). I had some trouble figuring out what should happen in this particular circumstance where both parties committed a big no-no. I think Erik considered the debt paid when he hit Laurence, but the latter did not. Obviously, given Laurence's condition, he would not have been well enough to challenge Erik at an earlier date. Given his slimy personality, I thought he would most likely send a note to Erik, requesting an apology knowing it would be ignored so that he could have the duel he clearly wanted. According to The Code of Honor, you can send two notes and then challenge because you've exhausted your efforts to obtain an apology? Laurence then shows up to Lord Tweeddale's ball to challenge Erik publicly, knowing there would be no way to refuse without forfeiting his honor. There we have it... Erik and Laurence are to duel; John is Erik's second and some equally unpleasant man is Laurence's; and the duel will take place at dawn (with pistols).**

 **Let's hope everything goes alright or this story could be cut short. D:**

 **Just kidding, in the 1870s duels were in decline and they didn't intentionally duel to kill because of the legal consequences (i.e. murder and manslaughter) but mistakes still happened... I hope I didn't ruin it too much for you, lol. Please enjoy and review!**

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Christine returned home and went to sleep in high spirits. She dreamt of what might have happened if Raoul had never recognized her and the jealous feud between him and Erik had never happened; Carlotta had fled in shame after, _Il Muto_ , taking Piangi with her. _Good riddance, Madame!_ Again, as in so many previous fantasies, she was on stage with Erik during, _Don Juan Triumphant_ ; again she was feeling the strange sensuous responses to his voice, to his music, that she had experienced that night. _She heard of the deep passion in his voice, she knew there was only truth in her replies._ As his hands located her hips and he pulled her to him, she was bombarded with images of their unavoidable union...

Erik was nowhere to be found the next day. Though this was the norm as of late, she suspected he had also retreated into solitude to lick his wounds after last night. She did not dwell on the thought for very long because Annabelle turned up just after lunch. It was a relief to have some pleasant company to distract her and the two girls spent hours looking through Christine's new jewellery, gossiping, and discussing Jane Austen's novels.

Annabelle departed shortly before dinner and Christine found that once alone her jubilation slowly dissolved into panic and fury; it had finally occurred to her that it was the eve of the duel. _Why did he have to be so proud? Why did he have to accept the challenge?_ She readied for bed earlier than usual, attempting to read a novel to calm her nerves. _There is no use, I can't concentrate!_ She let out an angry huff as she slammed the book shut, laying back against the headboard and staring up at the ceiling above, stewing in her emotions. The distant roll of thunder and rustle of wind outside seemed to echo her feelings. It wasn't until she heard his soft footsteps ascending the stairs and the click of his door, that an idea came to her. _She would stop him from attending tomorrow if she had to tie him up._ The thought made her laugh under her breath; _her tying up the Phantom, it was ridiculous._

Erik turned to face the intruder in alarm, relaxing when he saw her. _Who else could it have been at this hour?_ "Christine? Is everything alright? May I ask what you are doing in my bedroom?" he asked bemused. _Never in a million years would he have suspected this._ She remained there dumbstruck. He was standing in his unbuttoned shirtsleeves, the dim gas lanterns highlighting the musculature of his torso. "Christine?" After a moment her stupor was broken and she remembered her plan. _Time to act, to grovel, to do whatever necessary._ With a sorrowful wail, she began to cry. She felt his presence by her side almost immediately and realized it had worked. _Don't stop now!_ "What's wrong?" She knew she could mention nothing of the duel, at least not yet.

"I—I... _the storm._ They don't normally frighten me but _tonight..._ " A thunder clap sounded overhead, causing her to shrink against his chest in alarm. "Hold me, please!" she cried out. It wasn't intentional but it suited her purpose. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling responsible for her uneasiness. His heart quickened at the unexpected warmth of her cheek against his chest and her tears ceased. _Why was her touch still so unbearable?_ There were a few more booms, increasing in volume and proximity, and the sound of vicious rain. "Would you like me to take you back to your room and sit with you until you fall asleep?"

"No. I cannot— _I don't want..._ _Please, Erik, don't leave me all alone!_ " Her eyes were wide with panic. _Was she asking to share his bed?_ He frowned, grasping her shoulders gently and pulling her back to see her face. "What is it you want, Christine?" _This was it._ She had never considered herself a seductress by any means, but she was willing to try anything to keep Erik safe. "Can I— _can I sleep with you tonight?_ " _Well, he had guessed correctly._ He wanted to tell her to return to her room, wanted to warn her of the risk she would be incurring if she laid by his side, and yet, he knew he could not deny her anything. There was a teasing quirk of his lips, "This is hardly a proper thing for a lady to ask..." _Damn. Maybe her task would not be so easy._ She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

"I understand yesterday evening's events have left you unnerved and I do not mind this one instance of _indecency_." He smirked again. _What was he saying? He knew he would allow it if she asked in the future._ She felt him brush a tear off of her cheek as he gestured to the bed. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll join you in a moment." Christine was surprised to see him remove his shirt and trousers with her in the room; she gawked at his well-muscled back, her eyes following the erratic lines of scar tissue zigzagging across the skin. He must have felt her staring. "From my lovely time with the gypsies..." he muttered and walked into the bathroom. _Oh, now you've done it, chased him away._ She felt guilty for her brazenness, but it was soon replaced by nervous anticipation. _Would he come back into the room completely bare? What did he even sleep in? Would he expect her to be unclothed as well?_

Her musings were cut short when the room went suddenly dark and the mattress dipped with the addition of his weight; she knew he was beside her and her breath caught in her throat. _Would he initiate something?_ "Relax. It's only me, Christine." Chills ran down her body when she felt his arm slip around her shoulders and pull her closer until her head rested on his chest; with a small note of disappointment she realized he was wearing pajamas. The soft silk of his night clothes felt cool against her cheek and it was only then when she noticed how marvellous he smelled: like cloves, scotch, and citrus. Although, his hand came to rest midway down her arm, she desperately wished for it to dip lower.

"Are you feeling better?" The deep vibrations of his voice resonated throughout her body and she felt herself blush when she acknowledged her lust. "Yes." _Why is he just lying there?_ He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Good-night, my dear." _God, how he wanted her. No, no. He would not, it was terrible to even consider when she was so upset._ Soon he felt her hand slide down his body, her fingers tracing the muscles on his torso, letting out a sharp breath as they dipped into his trousers. He was quite sure it was a sick device of his imagination until her fingers began their gentle exploration of his anatomy, ultimately wrapping around him; his body came to life instantaneously under her timid touches. He was content to let her continue but knew it would not curb his longings; it would only make it impossible for him to resist the temptation to have her once again. Somehow he found the will to grab her hand. " _Christine, what—what are you doing?_ " he managed to ask, his voice heavy with arousal. "Erik, please. _I want you._ " _Well, if anything, she was no longer acting... the thrill of his body's intense reaction left her head spinning._

If he had believed refusing her that night in the Martello Tower was difficult, he knew not the meaning of the word; this was something else entirely, that night on the coast was prior to his first dosage of the addictive drug that was their coupling. It would be so easy, so satisfying, to just give in. _Here she is, dangling herself in front of you, and you deny the promise of incomprehensible pleasure? You do not deserve to call yourself a man._ Every one of his senses screamed for him to capitulate and deliver himself to passion. _It was not right; she deserved more than the life of a mistress._ " _Please try to sleep, it is very late._ We have plenty of time for such things, there—there is no need to rush." _What did he mean by that?_ Wincing, he withdrew her hand and returned it to his chest, making sure to keep a tight hold on it; he would not survive a second assault.

Outside the storm raged and he wondered if she was still afraid; at any rate it was wise to distract her. "Would you like me to sing for you?" She sighed her approval and listened as his deep melodic voice carried her into the world of dreams. Once he was positive she was asleep he followed suit, wishing he could remain in bed with her rather than facing the confrontation tomorrow would bring.

The lingering tendrils of darkness still clung to the lightening sky when Erik rose from bed. He dressed silently, ashamed that he was deceiving her but aware it was necessary. A gentleman's honor was everything and to flee from a duel was unacceptable; cowardice was far more damning to honor than murder. If anything, Erik had always upheld his sense gentlemanly integrity; something that had been drilled into him by his mother all those years ago. _It had to be done, there was no alternative._

John, Reginald, and Laurence's second were already at the chosen site; all were silent as they awaited Lord Hinton's arrival. They did not have long to wait. Just as the first rays of sunlight crept over the hill, Laurence arrived with a small posse. "Ready to settle this unpleasantness, Leroux?" he jeered as Sir John recounted the determined rules.

"In retaliation for the blow Lord Hinton received by Monsieur Leroux's hand, there shall be three shots fired, after which Monsieur Leroux will ask for pardon. However, because Lord Hinton insulted the honor of one Madame de Chagny, who was under Monsieur Leroux's protection, each will be separated the shortest amount possible, ten full paces." he opened the box he was holding containing a pair of duelling pistols. "It has been agreed that this duel will be fought with pistols. Sir Edgar and myself have each inspected the weapons and determined that they are the same and no one should provide an advantage over the other. Now, gentlemen, please select a weapon."

Each of them picked up a pistol as ordered and faced each other. There was a smugness on Laurence's face and Erik wondered why this boy was so confident; although he wanted to, he knew he would not shoot the boy. _Had he really changed that much that he would shy away from maiming or ending a man's life?_ _No, he was still gripped by murderous urges but resolved to hold himself in check for her. Did she know what a profound affect she had on him?_ At John and Edgar's announcement, the two men saluted one another and turned. _One. Two. Three. Four._ Erik counted the paces in his head. _Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Almost there. No, there was something not right._

There was a collective gasp and the loud crack of a pistol. Owing to his quick reflexes, Erik stepped to the side but felt a sharp impact and stinging pain flashed across his upper arm. " _DAMN!_ " he exclaimed, whirling around in conjunction with two additional gunshots. He heard Laurence's cry of pain; the boy was on the ground, one hand was bleeding profusely, as was his leg. He felt warm wetness seeping down his left side and was pulled out of his shock by the smell of gunpowder and Sir John's still-smoking gun. _Where had the second shot come from?_ It took him a moment to realize that it had come from his own pistol. "The duel is concluded, the matter having been resolved by first blood. Monsieur Leroux, you retain the right to exact justice for Lord Hinton's egregious breach of code." Erik shook his head. "Fine. Then it is settled. Lord Hinton, your despicable lack of honor is a shameful stain upon your position in society and your person. Rest assured this action will not go unheeded by your peers. Now, Sir Edgar, I suggest you get him to the surgeon before he bleeds to death. Good day to both of you!"

"My God, Erik, you're bleeding terribly! We should go to a doctor immediately!" Reginald cried on the carriage ride back. Erik grimaced, using his cravat to fashion a tourniquet. "That will not be necessary, I am sure it's just a glance." he replied, pointing out the tear in his jacket where the bullet had made contact. "I cannot believe the nerve of Laurence Paulding!" Reginald said with indignation. "I daresay he would have shot you in the back had John not intervened." The two younger men exchanged looks. "I doubt he could have hit him even if he brought a bag of ammunition, not that he could have with that hand. Say, Erik, how did you manage to fire so quickly? I wasn't even aware you had hit him until I saw his hand."

Erik shrugged and was overcome by a sharp pain tearing through his arm. _No man can defeat me in single-combat._ "It was simply luck, I suppose." While Reginald and John knew some of his past, he thought it better not to share too much. _For example, that you were once an Angel of Doom._ "Well, I hope you've learnt your lesson! Allow me to be blunt, my boy, one day that temper will get you into trouble." Erik frowned, _if only his friend knew..._

It was still very early when he and Sir John arrived back at his house. Christine was probably asleep. _Thank God._ Mrs. Foley answered the door and let out a startled gasp. "God Almighty, what's happened?!" Erik gestured for her to lower her voice. "Elsie, you must relax. It is only a small wound, very superficial. I'll need you to fetch some warm water, towels, bandages, and the vial of Lugol's solution. Please keep quiet, there is no need to wake Madame de Chagny." When he spoke, the maid found the calmness of his words had seeped into her mind and she went to retrieve the list of items without another word.

Christine was already out of bed, having awoken shortly after dawn with a terrible start. She dreamt Erik had taken part in the duel after all and had been gravely wounded; she held him close as the life slipped from his eyes. _I love you_ , his last words. When she had discovered that he was gone, she dressed, and spent the better part of two hours pacing his bedroom. The sound of the front door and Mrs. Foley's gasp had all but confirmed her worst fears and after several long minutes she gathered up the courage to creep into the hall.

"I'll assume that you do not plan on telling Christine." She recognized John's voice before she fully descended the stairs; so he had gone through with the duel, she was positive of that now. _Had he kept to his promise of murdering Laurence?_ "Telling me what?" John's face blanched and Erik knew she was there even before she spoke. He was sitting on the parlor sofa in his shirtsleeves, apparently uninjured. _Well, she obviously hasn't noticed yet._ He paused and waited for her imminent reaction, he heard her elation turn to panic when she saw the bloody bowl of water and bandages. "Erik! _Oh God, your side!_ " The entire left side of his shirt was stained a deep crimson. _He had been shot. Just like Raoul. Was he going to meet the same end as her late husband?_ She found herself overcome with anger at his recklessness and apparent disregard for his own life.

"My arm; and it's just a graze, hardly worth note." _Hardly worth note? His entire left side was covered in blood._ He sighed, thankful he had managed to treat it before she came down. She ignored his reply, instead rounding on John. " _What in the hell happened?!_ _I thought you were supposed to make sure he didn't get hurt! How could you have let him get shot?!_ " John looked down guilty, balking in the shadow of her wrath. But, it was Erik who spoke in his defense. "Enough. He is not to blame. Lord Hinton violated the code; he turned before he completed his ten paces. Fortunately, he is not a very skilled shot." He smirked at this last bit. She looked on in horror, not knowing which was worse, that he had been shot or the nonchalant way in which he was recounting it. "What happened?!"

"I shot him for his breach of code, as is my responsibility as second." John said numbly. She had forgotten he was still in the room. "Thank you, Sir John." she said, approaching him; and making sure Erik was watching, she stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a few seconds. "Thank God one of you has sense." Christine threw a scathing look at Erik, who only scowled; she relished that her jab had achieved its purpose. "You afford me far too much credit, Madame. Erik would have been quite fine if I hadn't fired. I doubt Lord Hinton would have been able to manage a second shot with half of a hand." He gave Erik a quirk of his lips, quickly looking away when he saw Christine was watching.

Sensing the inevitable confrontation between the two, John excused himself; he was scarcely out the front door when the storm broke. "HOW COULD YOU HAVE DONE SOMETHING SO IDIOTIC AND IRRESPONSIBLE?! DO YOU REALIZE YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED?! ERIK, I THOUGHT YOU HAD GIVEN UP THIS LIFE!" she screamed. "And, what life is that?" he asked quietly rising from his seat. " _This..._ the life of a—" He had her pinned against the wall in the blink of an eye. Even though he was furious, all he could think about was how much he desired her.

"A...? Say it. _A murderer?_ " His voice was ice. "I suppose it is irrational to expect a beast to relinquish its bloodlust. It matters little if it has lived among man, it still cannot be trusted." Instantly she regretted her outburst upon seeing his reaction; she knew this was a sensitive subject for him and was coldly reminded that despite the past two years in the public eye, Erik had not lost that sense of self-loathing and insecurity brought about by his deformity.

"Erik. That's not what I—" He radiated an aura of frigid hostility. " _Didn't you though?_ Need I remind you that the entire affair was to preserve your honor, _that honor which you so wantonly gave to said beast._ " She reached out to slap him but he caught her wrist. "I don't think it wise to provoke a murderer." Their eyes locked and Christine could not help wishing that he would take her honor again, the feeling of his body on hers brought forth her most sinful yearnings. He watched her pant, her breasts rising and falling with each exertion; it was too much. Eventually he let go of her and stormed off to the chair where his jacket lay. "Where are you going?"

He chuckled darkly, "I've not decided yet, my dear. I am currently between retiring to my ocean vortex to suck down unsuspecting ships or that lovely labyrinth built just for me; I hear John and Reginald are delivering a fresh course of virgin flesh as we speak." She might have laughed if he had made the joke under happier circumstances, but rather she found herself longing to run to him, remove his mask and kiss every inch of his face. _You're not a monster. You've always been my Angel._ " _Erik, please don't go..._ "

"I suppose you're going to stop me, Madame? I would not recommend it; even Zeus barely managed to defeat Typhon. You would be sensible to remember _, monsters are not to be crossed._ " he sneered. Not pausing to see the look of hurt shock on her face, he left. He could not stay in the house a moment longer and didn't bother to wait for his carriage. _Why had he treated her in such an appalling manner?_ He knew this shame was not rooted in the rough way he had handled her or the harshness of his words, but in the thoughts that had gone through his mind during the ordeal. He could never be angry with her for long, but he had collected a lifetime of anger at himself; his prurient fantasies were now wildly out of check in her presence. It had become impossible to shut them out when he had her there, between himself and the wall. All he could imagine was how much he wanted to show her the deplorable way a beast really behaved...


	20. Post-Duel Blues

**Thanks so much for the reviews and reads! The duel scene was really fun for me to write and sort of came to me out of the blue. I had sort of known that having the whole Laurence deal end that same night would probably not be super believable. I can't imagine someone in his social position (remember, like Raoul, Viscount is his courtesy title and he will one day be an Earl) and of his temperament would let something that serious go unaddressed. Luckily I stumbled on the _Code Duello_ and found the whole thing fascinating (sort of wish it was still legal). At first I was like, 'Jeez, this whole story is rather dramatic,' but then I realized an E/C story couldn't NOT be. **

**This chapter is not one packed full of action, but it is a VERY big plot point and another result of lots of research. I would love to know what you guys think. BUT there's a nice flashback and some hotness to make up for the lack of stuffs done.**

 **Of course I own nothing but if I did... well, I wouldn't have to write out my frustrations. ;)  
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In the last week and a half, Reginald had grown increasingly worried over Erik's state of mind. He wondered if it was the ignominious duel with Lord Hinton or the fight that had followed that was to blame for the composer's moody seclusion. The old colonel would have been content to just let the storm blow over but the concert hall staff had been reporting disturbing rumors. Eventually they began whispering about the revolting smells coming from the basement and the man knew he could put this conversation off no longer. _Well, he had an excuse, the next concert was in a few days._

That morning, the old man slowly made his way down to the basement with a sigh, barely reaching the fifth step from the bottom before he was overwhelmed by a putrid stench. _Good God, they hadn't been lying!_ He wondered what on earth Erik could possibly be doing down here. _God, I hope he's not taken up taxidermy or worse..._ Finally he reached the only door that had light stretching under the door; he paused before pushing it open, afraid of what he would find on the other side. The man took a deep breath as he opened the door, instantly regretting that he hadn't thought to hold it instead; at once he was overcome by a dizzying wave of horrid odor, choking on the noxious fumes. Amidst his violent coughing fit and streaming eyes, he could not see anything. _What if Erik isn't even down here? God, I am going to die in this cesspool._

"Idiot!" He felt someone dragging him out of the room before he lost complete awareness. Fifteen minutes later, he stirred, his head ached fiercely. Reginald looked around, _how did he get into his office?_ "Do you have a death wish, Colonel?"

" _Erik, what in God's name...?_ " Reginald looked up at his young friend he was slovenly and looked as though he hadn't slept in days, he also looked to have lost some weight. "Well, I see my informants were not exaggerating. Do you mind telling me just what in the hell you are doing in my concert hall's basement and why the smell nearly killed me?" The colonel asked impatiently. Erik said nothing at first, he seemed offended by the older man's presence. "You've been spying on me, Reginald? Is that why you've come, to confront and send me away? Are you and the staff finally convinced that I've gone mad?"

"I have been doing nothing of the sort! I was content to ignore the speculation until I heard about the mysterious deliveries, terrible smell, and that you haven't left this place in over a week. I am simply checking up on you to make sure you are alright; or is concern over your well-being not the responsibility of friends? This is not the sole reason for my visit either... The next concert is in three days, had you forgotten? There is also the matter of rehearsal, Lord Tweeddale has given you time to recover from your injury, but he expects you at the theatre at the beginning of next week. I am worried about you, my boy." This last expression of sentiment cooled Erik's temper, he knew that Reginald was a true friend and regarded him as he would a favorite nephew.

"Most of your worry is unfounded, Reginald, I have left the building to bathe and change; I doubt anyone would have seen because each time I've been home, it has been well after midnight. As for the 'mysterious' delivery, it is not as sinister as you make it sound. Come, I'll show you." Reginald gawked at the composer, whom he was now convinced was as mad as he had joked about. "Oh, there is no need for such dramatics, Colonel. I assure you my intentions are not to suffocate you. Here, you will need this." he said, tossing a strange mask-like thing to Reginald. "Oh, relax, man, it's not as bad as all that. It's a respirator. You know, to help you breathe. Brilliant design, really; originally created and patented by Tyndall for the fire department." he added, observing his friend's horrified look of confusion.

They returned to the basement once Erik had ensured Reginald's respirator was properly in place, the older man hadn't noticed that Erik had removed his mask to allow for the breathing apparatus until they were in the room; he had seen his friend without the mask a few times and was not revolted by the marred flesh, it was not that horrific of a disfigurement. As a military man, he had seen truly horrific sights: men burned so badly that they resembled melted candles, unfortunate boys blown to pieces, those who had taken a musket ball or worse to the face and survived. Really, he did not understand how the general public was still so superstitious and disgusted by Erik's disfigurement. Truthfully, from what he heard of the small-minded dolts who had inflicted suffering and violence on the man throughout his life, he did not blame him for the contempt he felt for most of humanity.

Reginald's first thought upon entering the room was that it was some sort of mad scientist's laboratory straight from the works of Mary Shelley, he wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find Frankenstein's monster tethered to a table in the corner. There were giant bubbling pots resting on burners, equipment he did not recognize, and several blocks of what looked like clay and stone. Erik gestured as if to say, ' _See, there is nothing nefarious afoot._ ' and motioned for Reginald to follow him back up to the offices.

"So I see you are not dissecting corpses in hopes of bringing Shelley's works to life, but I am still baffled as to what you _are_ doing. Care to explain?" he asked, tearing the odd breathing mask from his face. _How did Erik stand to wear it?_ He almost said something until he realized, with a touch of anger at his stupidity, that it must not faze someone who had worn one for nearly every day of his life. Thankfully, Erik did not seem to notice this internal conflict. "If I must..." he answered.

"I am unsure of how to begin my explanation because I do not know how familiar you are with any of this... Have you, by chance, heard of the work of Thomas Hancock and Charles Goodyear involving vulcanization of rubber?" Reginald nodded; he had heard briefly of these two men and their contributions, but didn't know many details. Nevertheless, his response appeared to be satisfactory and Erik continued, "Well, as I'm sure you are aware natural rubber is harvested from trees. Specifically _Hevea brasiliensis,_ or Pará rubber tree, if you prefer. It is truly a miraculous product, but in its virgin form it has a tendency to melt when hot and crack when cold. You can imagine that this limits its usages, however both Hancock and Goodyear found that when a curative agent is added in combination with heat, the material becomes more durable and easier to mould. I will not bore you with further details of the process, but suffice it to say vulcanization of rubber is truly fascinating. Anyways, I am being forced to perform in Lord Tweeddale's nephews blasted opera, as you know..." his tone grew dark at this last bit and the Colonel's look of confusion only irritated Erik further. "Yes, it sounds most intriguing and yes, I am well-aware... _but what does vulcanization have to do with—_ "

"Quiet, you dolt! If you allow me to explain instead of making asinine inquiries, you might find out! Now, performing on stage presents a host of complications, for how could I be expected to play the role of Alberto?" Reginald gasped. _How had he not seen it before? Erik's mask was a huge and possibly incriminating obstacle._ "Yes, yes, Reginald, it's the mask. I very well can't go without it either, can I?" He let out a cold chuckle. "No, no, we couldn't have the ladies fainting... It would be an absolute catastrophe! You can imagine this vexed me to no end and I spent several nights researching, prodding the depths of my mind, reading ceaselessly in many languages until I stumbled upon something so simple as a newspaper clipping... _A newspaper clipping_ announcing Goodyear's patent, absurd! This was the answer, I was sure of it! So I studied the process, ordered the materials to be expedited, and began trying to recreate it right here in the basements. Unfortunately it's quite volatile, probably owing to the sulfur; but that was easily solved by the respirator you hold in your hand."

At last, Reginald understood. "So the smells, the sleepless nights, the self-imposed isolation... all to create another mask solely for the performance?"

Erik waved his hand impatiently, aggravated by his friend's inability to grasp the profundity of this information. "No, Colonel. Not just another mask... _A mask that can be moulded to my face, colored, and detailed to give the appearance of real flesh._ " The childlike excitement in his voice was almost painful to hear, as if the idea of an unaffected face was on par with El Dorado. "It sounds wondrous, Erik, _but is it possible?_ How close are you to creating such a thing and would it even be ready in time for the opening night?"

Reginald instantly regretted his words as he saw the seething fury in the younger man's eyes, his hands were balled into fists. " _Is it possible?_ _Anything_ is possible if I choose to make it so! _You ask how close I am?_ Perhaps _you should_ ask yourself if I would be wasting my time conversing with a simpleton if I hadn't already completed my task!" he roared, making the older man shrink back a little. Erik's genius was no secret and was limitless, even uncomfortably so, but as awesome as it was to behold, it terrified Reginald more often than not. There was no way to comprehend the things that went on in the masked man's head, and in a mind that played host to darkness, this was a very unsettling prospect. "So, it's finished then? Dare I ask to see?" he wondered if this new question would only serve to anger his friend further and was relieved when it didn't.

"You may see in time. There is still much to be added: pores, creases, enhanced details, but you will be the first to know when I am satisfied enough with my work to allow a public viewing." his voice was now even, some of the dry wit returning with the way in which he referred to showing-off his creation. "Erik, please indulge my curiosity when I ask why you agreed to this favor when it raises so many complications? I know you are a man of principles and feel you are honor-bound to your word, but surely Lord Tweeddale would have understood your refusal given your situation. Why did you then grant his request?" This detail had been bothering him since the Colonel had first learned Erik was to assume the lead in the production and he posited it now, capitalizing on his friend's renewed calmness.

"I had dreaded Lord Tweeddale would make such a plea since he first heard Christine sing, but I never considered he would ask me as well, his infatuation with my voice notwithstanding. I thought my curse excluded me from such concessions." He laughed bitterly, pointing to his mask. "Believe me, I had my refusal already on the tip of my tongue, however when I saw her eyes light up, saw how deeply enchanted she was, saw the look of absolute delight on her face... _God, Reginald,_ the rapture was practically radiating from her like the rays of the sun—I said yes. _I had to, you see?_ I could not allow my selfishness to be an obstacle to her dreams..."

He noticed the pain in Erik's words, heard the irrepressible longing of his tone, saw the anguished expression twist the visible half of his face and he understood immediately. The depth of his friend's love for the beautiful widow defied quantification, he could deny her nothing; he would unveil his face to the world, fall on his sword, conquer an empire, carve her name into his heart, resurrect the lost city of Atlantis, if only it earn him one of her smiles. Reginald could not help but feel a pang of sympathy and furiously prayed that she returned even a fraction of Erik's sentiment. If she were to offer the slightest rejection, he knew it spell irreversible doom for the younger man.

The mention of the girl brought a concern to light and before thinking it through, he made the question on his mind known. " _That reminds me, actually..._ Have you spoken with Christine at all since the duel?" Erik once again bristled with anger. "It is true we are close friends, Colonel, but do not believe for a moment this entitles you to inquire into my personal affairs." he said defensively. _Why had a simple question evoked such a severe reaction?_

"Erik, I only ask because I hear she is worried sick about you..." _If his love was this intense, how could he bear to have stayed away from her for over a week? Had something unfortunate transpired between them?_ Reginald hoped against all hope that this wasn't an ulterior motive for a mask that would allow his friend to appear normal. _Had she seen him without the mask and recoiled in horror?_ He hoped this wasn't the case, the young composer certainly did not need any more scorn, pity, or hatred from the world. Erik sighed, ashamed at his outburst, recalling the last time he had seen her with quiet suffering.

* * *

 _After departing from his house, from his urges, from her... he went to the only other place of comfort he knew: the concert hall. He tried in vain to answer letters and read over various legal documents, but his fantasies had reached a crescendo and dominated every part of his mind. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed a handful of staff paper and wrote frantically, seeking release in the form of music; attempting to transfer every sliver of his longing, each shred of desire onto the page, hoping it would be bound and contained by the ink. This action was essential to preserve his sanity, his fervid need for her was a sickness, a voracious cancer growing inside both body and mind, threatening to consume him alive. His pace was sluggish, owing to the recent injury he had sustained; luckily he had mastery enough over both hands to use his right, albeit slow and untidy. At some point there was a small knock at the door. He did not answer, hoping whomever it was would draw inference from his silence and leave him in peace. Much to his displeasure, the door opened anyways and he silently reprimanded himself for not thinking to lock it._

 _"Far be it for me to inform you that it is considered impolite to barge into a room without invitation to do so..." He had expected it to be Reginald, William, John, or some ignorant staff member and strove to make it clear he did not wish to be disturbed; his irritation deepened when the person remained. He looked up from his work with a scowl, managing to conceal his surprise when he saw who dared bother him. "Oh, it's just you... What do you need?" he said coldly, returning to his music. Could he ever find solitude? However, he could see she was hurt by his dismissive attitude and felt sorry for its necessity. "Erik. I—I asked after you everywhere and finally decided to look here. I have to talk to you!"_

 _"I am far too busy for idle conversation. If you are in such desperate need of discourse, you might call on Annabelle or someone else with equally precious little to occupy their time." There was a pause; he forgot briefly that she was still there, until he heard her quiet sobs. What was so upsetting? Surely she wasn't still angry about his earlier mishap. He stopped writing and recapped his ink well. No matter how irate he was, he could not stand to see her cry. Knowing he would strongly regret it, he went to her, taking both of her hands into his one. "I am sorry, Christine. I just—I did not wish to be disturbed. I should not have been so callous. What did you need to discuss?"_

 _He had hardly anticipated that his words would cause her to weep more vigorously. "No, Erik, please don't apologize... It is I, who should be asking forgiveness for my behavior this morning. I never wanted—I did not mean to imply that... that you were... a—a monster." This is why she was so distraught? His heart constricted with the evident sincerity of her words. "I know that was not your motive. I am at fault for overreacting, I let frustration over ... Lord Hinton's actions warp my judgement." It was a lie but he couldn't very well tell her the real reason for his limitless frustration. "No, Erik. Listen to me!" There was an uncharacteristic note of command in her voice and he looked at her intently. "Do not think for a single moment that you are a monster! You are a man unlike any other; you are an angel, MY Angel. It's taken me far too long to admit it. I should have told you sooner but I was too young and foolish."  
_

 _Entranced by her words, he was unaware that she had removed his mask, only realizing it when he felt her warm lips brush his flawed cheek. This couldn't be reality. She kept talking, sentences pouring forth like a river overflowing its banks. "I let the fear of others warp my view and twist my emotions. Erik, I was afraid of my own feelings, I didn't know what they meant then; I should have asked for advice or embraced them but ... but I was weak. Then Raoul came and he was a convenient distraction, just another way for me to run away, to hide. I was blinded by my girlish obsession with fairy-tales. I wish I could—I would do anything to take back every terrible thing I said about you, removing your mask, choosing the easy path... When I heard the news that you had been killed a hole opened up in my chest; stupidly I never thought to ask myself why, even though I dreamt of you nearly every night since leaving the Opera Populaire. Then we were reunited and I was—I am so glad to see that you have found recognition and success. But there is something missing: my acceptance. I am sorry to offer it so late, but after this morning, after what happened... I needed—I need to let you know, Erik, that... that I love—"  
_

 _She was cut off mid-sentence as he crushed his lips to hers; he wasn't sure if she could feel the wetness of his tears, but cared not either way. She loved him and had told him so! Now he kissed her with an internalized passion he did not know he possessed and he was wholly unprepared for the frenzied in which she mirrored his zeal. All previous reservations fell by the wayside as the solid stone of restraint crumbled to sand; there was only her, the oxygen in his lungs, the blood in his veins: Christine. Their tongues met, a climax in of itself; crackling electricity surged through him when he pulled her closer and though he knew a fatal jolt would follow eventually, he continued to hold her as tightly as possible without squeezing the life from her.  
_

 _Her hands moved from his maimed cheek, fingers raking through his hair and down his neck eventually settling on his shoulders and clutching him unwilling to let go; while he kept one hand entwined in her curls and let his other one travel down her back until it came to rest on her bottom. There was something incredibly erotic about touching her through the fabric of her dress and layers of clothing. He could feel the warmth of her body burning through his palm, yet there was a barrier preventing full contact and it drove him wild. Cursing the fact that he could not pick her up or carry her to the couch, Erik walked them backwards slowly until she was resting against his desk. He deepened the kiss, incited by her low moans, briefly removing his hand from her back to sweep everything off the desk surface, all while pressing himself to her further.  
_

 _Christine jumped, startled by the loud clatter as the objects hit the floor, inadvertently grinding her pelvis into his already straining arousal. A groan escaped his lips and he lifted her onto the edge of the desk with one arm, coaxing her legs apart so that he could settle between them. He realized with disappointment that they were both completely clothed. Slowly he pulled up her skirt and the petticoat underneath, rolling them up and gathering the material about her waist, savoring the feel of her stockings as he slid his hands up her thighs. God, he could feel the heat of her thighs, feel the moisture pooling in her most sensitive regions. Erik groaned once again when he felt the familiarity of her hands tugging at his trousers, eager to free him for their impending union; one hand dipped into his drawers to caress him and he felt he might faint. At this moment he was immeasurably grateful that women's undergarments were split and his hands took full advantage of this opportunity as began kissing down her jaw and neck. His freshly injured arm burned and stung, shooting waves of pain through his arm and shoulder but he cared not. He was determined to have her and would not let discomfort stand in his way...  
_

 _Before he realized, Christine had managed to undo his trousers and open his drawers. Finally, he could have her, but during his pause, a strange thought crept into his mind. What if he got her pregnant? No, that was ridiculous, he didn't even know if he could... Could monsters even—? Everything about him aside from his hideously deformed face was that of a normal man so he assumed that included his virility. How could he have been too selfish to foresee this huge consequence? Previously he had been worried about dishonoring her by congregating outside of wedlock, but this was far worse. Having the Devil's child was a death sentence; his mother had made that clear and even said as much: 'You ruined my life when you were born!' He would not wish himself born to anybody, let alone a perfect angel like Christine. He pulled away from her in self-disgust, making himself decent and hurrying over to the cabinet that housed his spirits._

 _"Erik? What is the matter? I thought you were enjoying—" she said in disappointment, her voice still husky with lust. "Well then, you thought incorrectly, my dear!" he snapped, taking a long swig of his drink. "But—but Erik, I love you! I need you... Please. What did I do wrong? Tell me so I can make it better." He said nothing, unwilling to divulge the reason for his actions._

 _Christine was a kind and gentle soul and he knew she would dismiss his fears as nonsense, claiming that she would love the baby no matter what. It was one thing to say something, but she held no knowledge of the depth of man's cruelty and he would never willing saddle her with such a burden. Fate was wicked even now, he had a woman to love and love him in turn, and yet he still could not have that which most men take for granted: a child. "Erik, please..." she pleaded again, sliding off the desk and coming towards him. "No, Christine. I do not want you. You must leave!" She continued her approach. "No, Erik. This is just a misunderstanding, please just talk to me."  
_

 _"GET OUT!" he bellowed. Christine only stared at him defiantly. No, she had to be frightened away or else he would be tempted to give into his still-present urges. "LEAVE ME AND DO NOT RETURN!" he roared, throwing the glass at the wall behind her. He saw the look of hurt and confusion nestled among her tears as she scurried out of the room, leaving him to mop up the blood from his reopened wound.  
_

* * *

He dared not share a majority of the story, feeling his cheeks burn with even the most minor details or insinuations, but he recounted enough of it to give his friend a rough idea: Christine had come to speak with him after he rudely departed, he had tried to brush her off to no avail; eventually she ended up confessing her feelings and unmasking him, but he—in his infinite distrust and stupidity—lost his temper and frightened her away; now he was far too ashamed of his repellent behavior and feared he had destroyed any remaining hope of love between them. To his surprise, Reginald did not seem repulsed, nor did he offer stern reprimand, only saying: "Your intentions in giving her space are understandable and there is no excuse for the manner in which you two parted, but the girl loves you, Erik. People will fight and lovers are no exception; there are always arguments or moments of idiocy, but if the feelings between two parties is deep enough—as I know they are between the two of you—love will forever emerge the victor. It seems all has been forgiven and she anxious to see you again. So now it is your decision to be make: _what will you choose to do, Erik?_ "

Erik stared at the older man for a moment, unsure of how he should regard the latter's advice. Very few people had ever dared to address him so candidly, preferring to keep their distance, and yet here Reginald was discussing life and love as if he were any other man. He had killed for less and detested being approached on such a personal level and its implied vulnerability, however he found solace in the Colonel's words. _A foreign feeling indeed!_

There was an awkward silence between them after he spoke and Reginald wondered if he had gone too far; broaching an intimate topic of this nature was a risk with Erik, much akin to handling a scorpion without gloves or playing with a cobra. He looked down at his hands, waiting for the explosion of temper he was sure would come. Finally he gathered the courage to look up and was surprised to see a small smile gracing Erik's lips. "You are undoubtedly right, my friend. I've sulked for quite long enough and my apology is long past-due. The hour is still early enough for me to plan a special evening for Christine. Although, I wish it to be a surprise and my appearance is positively unscrupulous. Would you mind terribly if I were to bathe and dress at your house?"

Reginald returned his smile, "Not in the least! In fact, I was going to suggest it." There was not much the Colonel wouldn't do to help along his friend's budding romance, if anybody deserved a touch of happiness out of life it was Erik and, besides that, Christine's affect had been extensive. It was his sincere hope that with time she would be the one to bring the troubled man completely into the light and quash the lingering darkness in his soul.

* * *

 **So it occurs to me that to get more feedback and reviews, I should be more interactive with my lovely readers.**

 **What do you guys think of the new mask?**

 **What about Erik's new fears? Is he too late to worry about such a thing?**

 **What do you think he is planning to do for Christine?**


	21. Making Peace

**Yay, another chapter closer to a MAJOR plot point! This one is sort of fluffy, but it does have some nice relationship development. I promise all of this fluff is necessary to lull you all into a false sense of security so I can rip it all away from you, muahahaha! No, I am kidding; I'm not _that_ mean. Anyways, thank you so much for the reviews, each one means a lot to me and I will start responding to each one from now on. **

**PhantomFan01: Well, if you KNOW he will propose, you must be right. ;) Of course a proposal is inevitable but it might not be as seamless as you think. I know I've been dropping hints left and right and as you will see in this chapter, Erik definitely plans on doing so. Don't worry, I've got a ring picked out and everything! I'm thinking of actually drawing it to provide a visual because I'm not sure I can do it justice with a written description. **

**iris2312: You're in luck because an update is here! I know I should be more consistent with them but sometimes life gets in the way and I suffer occasional bouts of writer's block. If you enjoy the speed bumps E/C have experienced so far, you ain't seen nothing yet. Hahaha, I'll leave you to read between the lines on that one. Thank you for your feedback and compliments! Sometimes I get so wrapped up in writing that I have a whole narrative going on in my head.  
**

 **And, because you guys are reading and enjoying, I'll go ahead and drop the names of a few completed chapters I have in the wings, they are: Gustave, Confrontation, Resolution, Vienna, and That Past Which Haunts Us (in no particular order). Feel free to muse over what these future chapters could possibly be about and comment on it, I might PM you to confirm or deny. ;)  
**

* * *

Erik heard approaching footsteps as he stood in the parlor fastening his cufflinks and tying his cravat. Up until now he had rather enjoyed the last two hours of solace afforded to him for the purpose of grooming. He had all but forgotten how truly divine it felt to sink into a bath; forgotten how something as simple as a tub of heated water could relax both mind and body and draw out any unpleasantness. In reality he had been far more thankful that his long soak and subsequent preening had provided him ample time to think of ways to repair things with Christine. Assuming he even could... _But surely there existed a means to do so, right?_ It was common knowledge that where there was a will, there was a way.

Reginald had said she was— _what exactly had he said, again? 'She is worried sick about you.'_ Erik tried to ignore the hopeful flutter in his chest at the recollection. True, Reginald was one of the few people he counted as a friend in his tragic life. _Hell, the man had proved that he held Erik in the same regard with his blunt words earlier._ Yet he found it difficult to believe that Christine was distressed by his absence, despite Reginald's vehement insistence. On the other hand, his friend was an engineer, a military-man at that; not the type to embellish sentiment. Still, there was some doubt in his mind as he adjusted his collar to perfection.

"It never ceases to amaze me how you manage to do that so well without the help of a valet, let alone with no mirror..." Erik couldn't help but feel a spark of indignation at other presence in the room, mostly because it interrupted his thoughts of Christine and the thousand ways in which he hoped to convince her of his love. With his next breath he pushed the annoyance from his mind. This wasn't his house after all _._ " _And it does not cease to amaze me_ that a man of your age cannot dress himself without aid. But I suppose you are getting on in years, Colonel." he replied wryly, smirking at the scowl he could almost hear cross the man's face. "So says the one who behaves like a lovesick schoolboy when it comes to the simple act of wooing a woman."

Now it was Reginald's turn to smirk, for Erik spun around so quickly, the man was sure his younger friend's head would fly off his shoulders like a spinning top. " _Careful, Colonel..._ I already bathed and changed for the evening, but if you persist, I might overcome my scruples concerning bloodying my clean clothes." Erik hissed through his teeth. "And what a shame it would be! Although, I am quite sure Mr. Poole would appreciate the additional business of replacing your wardrobe. Though, I'm unsure if they have need of bespoke suits at the penitentiary... At any rate, have you decided how you will ask for her forgiveness?" A growl escaped the masked man's lips as he turned his back, his temper rising at the personal nature of the question. But Reginald made a good point. _Had he...?_

"Yes. I think I have..." was all he said, quickly glancing at the piece of paper he had removed from his jacket before tucking it away again. Wanting to leave before the older man dared to ask any more uncomfortable questions, Erik moved towards the door. "I thank you once again for your hospitality, Reginald, but I do not wish to overstay my welcome. I will see you at the concert the evening after next."

"You mean to say you will not be back to the concert hall until that time?" the older man asked in astonishment, unsure he had heard correctly. For it was completely uncharacteristic for his friend to take an hour-long break from his work, let alone two entire days, and with an upcoming concert, no less! "Yes, Colonel, very sharp deductive skills. All of the preparations are made, _I trust you can manage to make sure things remain on track without me for a change..._ " With that, he exited the room leaving a stunned Reginald in his wake, so hasty in his retreat that he failed to notice the piece of paper that fluttered out of his jacket.

Only the opening and closing of the front door released the old Colonel from his stupefaction. In the time he had known the masked composer, he had never seen him put stock in anything other than his compositions or the renovation of the concert hall. What could cause such a sudden shift in priorities? _Love; it had to be._ He took a step forward and pulled back when he felt something crunch underfoot. Carefully he picked up the neatly folded paper he had just trodden on, letting out a gasp as he opened it. It was a ring, that much was clear. In addition to the main drawing, there were several others affording views from seemingly all angles; each stone and it's respective carat was recorded as well. The entire thing, down to the best cut for each stone, was meticulously diagrammed in Erik's elegant script, leading Reginald to only one conclusion: Erik meant to propose and soon. He found himself filled with a strange sort of almost-fatherly pride at this turn of events; for years he had been hoping his young friend would discover a reason to truly live and finally it appeared his prayers had been answered. With a hearty chuckle, he tucked the paper safely in his pocket and poured himself a drink to celebrate.

Erik arrived home late in the afternoon but could not bring himself to enter, his courage faltering each time he reached for the door handle. Finally after three additional trips around the block in the carriage, he took a swig from the flask he had thoughtfully brought along and managed to steel his nerves just enough. He opened the door gingerly and was semi-relieved to find that there was no one downstairs. She must be upstairs reading.

He began to ascend the stairs but stopped a third of the way up when an idea came to him; slipping into his study quietly, he quickly found his quarry. Then, making his way down the hall, he stopped in front of a pair of doors. This was one of a handful of rooms in the house that he had never entered. _Well, now was as good a time as any to change that..._ he thought as he turned the key in the lock. Aside from a weekly dusting from Mrs. Foley, nobody had been in this room since Erik first moved in and saw it furnished. As he walked through the handsome room, he was unable to stop himself from running his hands along everything. When he came to London, he had insisted this room be made into a music room, as it had the best acoustics in the house. Although he never intended on setting foot in it, the room brought some measure of comfort, making him feel as though music was not out of reach should he regain interest in playing again. This was his best chance of winning his way back into Christine's good graces, now only one question remained: which instrument to choose? Eventually he decided on the cello and after a quick tune-up, he began to play.

Christine was sitting in her room reading the novel that Annabelle had left behind when she visited earlier. This was her first attempt at reading in English, a challenge she chose to undertake in the hope that it would provide ample distraction from thoughts of _him_. It had been over a week since she last saw Erik and now she was beginning to doubt she would ever see him again. After the first few days she had retreated to her room, telling herself it was far too lonely in the house even with Annabelle's daily visits and Mrs. Foley's cheerful presence but deep-down she knew the real reason for her self-imposed seclusion was that she couldn't bear to walk by his study every time she came up or down the stairs. Whenever the bell rang or she heard footsteps she would perk up, praying that they belonged to him; unfortunately they never did.

And so she remained ever since Annabelle had taken her leave, by now fully engrossed in the novel. She had just gotten to the part where one of the characters played a piano sonata and through the author's vivid description, she could almost hear the music. Christine relaxed, letting the music in her head surround and engulf her like a warm shawl. She was momentarily startled out of her trance by the thud her book made as it slipped onto the wood floor. Her eyes flew open as she realized the music wasn't in her head, _it was real._ That meant... " _Erik!_ " she breathed as she jumped to her feet and hurried out the door.

She threw open the doors to his study in a rush of excitement but found it empty. Could she have just imagined it in her loneliness? Dejectedly, she prepared to return to her room and her book, now quite sure her sanity was beginning to slip until another sweet refrain swept her up once more, beckoning her forth. She followed the sound blindly, completely bewitched by the music, into parts of the house that she never thought to explore until now.

As he played, he wondered if he should have chosen the flute or piccolo instead. Certainly either of those instruments would better fit the aura of the Pied Piper that he was currently channeling. He knew she would come, for nobody could resist his voice or his music. Indeed his efforts were rewarded when he heard her little footsteps in the hall. Soon a door opened and he could feel that she was in the room, although he dared not look up. _Coward. Why don't you say something? Look at her at the very least! Damn you, why do you dare to call yourself a man?_ Yet, despite his self-berating inner monologue he still couldn't bring himself to take his eyes off the cello. Maybe he could play on forever and therefore be excused from facing her, but he had no such luck. He felt his body grow hot and he knew she was approaching; for it was the kind of heat that only she could evoke in him, the kind of heat that made him feel as though he had been plunged into the inner circles of Hell while he sat on the silvery clouds of Heaven.

Christine entered the room and was a bit shocked when she heard the door close behind her. But soon the strange music washed away all doubt and fear. _Had she been the one to close the door? How had she gotten in this room?_ Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him, _saw Erik_ , sitting on the edge of a plush red velvet chair, his fingers caressing the cello between his legs like a fond lover. Suddenly she was wickedly jealous of the instrument and the sultry notes he evoked with his expert fingers, just as she had been the night of the Marquess' ball. _Was this another one of her endless dreams or was it reality?_ It felt very real, but so had the dreams of him that haunted her every night since she last saw him. Christine watched for a minute more, utterly mesmerized, eventually fighting the hold his melody held over her. It was clear what she had to do. For a while she had been content to linger in the world of dreams but after the fifth night without Erik, they just left her with an unquenchable and bitter longing. She reached out to touch him, determined to discover if this was yet another of her fantasies...

All at once the room was swallowed up by silence; as soon as he felt the warmth of her small hand resting on his shoulder he stopped playing. His eyes snapped up involuntarily as he beheld her for the first time in over a week. _She was just as beautiful as he remembered..._ They remained like that for several minutes; their eyes locked but neither of them dared to speak. Christine withdrew her hand and studied him for a bit longer, during which time he braced himself for the worst. Finally she spoke. " _You're real._.." she whispered to herself. He did not reply, instead he laid the cello against the chair and grasped both of her hands, kissing each of them. "Yes." He stumbled backwards under the ferocity with which she embraced him, and though his arms wrapped around her in turn, he was overcome with remorse. He had expected, almost wanted, her to be angry with him; she had every right to be. He had expected to be slapped, punched, screamed at, threatened and knew he deserved every bit of her wrath.

" _You're real._ Oh God, Erik, I am so glad you're home! Please forgive me, I didn't mean to—" she sobbed into his chest. This was entirely too much for him and he gently pushed her away. "Christine, there is no use in apologizing, I will not accept. You cannot be held accountable for my deplorable manners. It is I alone who should be begging for absolution. I only hope you are not too angry with me to join me for dinner; I've asked Elsie to make your favorite dish." he said, wiping her tears away with the back of his finger and managing a small smile. A smile which, to his infinite relief, she returned. "Does this mean you are home for the rest of the evening?" she asked, biting her lip. _God how he wanted to kiss her in that moment._ "Yes, for the rest of the evening and the next two days." She let out a squeal of joy at his answer and kissed him on the cheek, blushing when she pulled back and saw his stunned expression. Perhaps it was still too soon for such intimate contact, _but she could wait_...

Thankfully he spoke first to break the tension that had settled between them after her show of affection, "I am glad this information pleases you, however we still have time before dinner is ready. Is there anything in particular you would care to do?" Erik looked at her hopefully, praying she would say something to halt the debauched ways his mind was currently conjuring up to pass the time. Now that he was in the same room as her once again, Erik was reminded what a Herculean task it was to keep his lustful fantasies at bay. He watched her face light up as a smile crossed her lips; she opened her mouth to speak but shut it at the last second and looked down at her hands with sudden interest. Did she share the same sinful ideas as him? Erik waited for her to voice her thoughts with rapt attention, unsure what he would do if she suggested the unthinkable.

Finally she replied, "I feel strange asking, but do you— _do you think we could_... that is, would you be willing to tutor my voice once again in preparation for... _well, it's just..._ " she began, tripping over her words and wringing her hands until they were red, "I do not wish to sound terribly out of practice when we start rehearsals next week." Before he could help it, a relieved chuckle escaped his lips; something he instantly regretted when he saw her flush with embarrassment. _Thank heaven, s_ _he only wanted to practice singing!_ "Please excuse my rudeness, I didn't mean to give the impression I was laughing at your expense." he quickly backtracked, "When I saw how nervous you were, I expected your request to be something quite out of my reach to fulfill; it is reassuring that your demand is easily met and I would be delighted to offer my services in this capacity. Although from what I heard that night, your voice is not as out of practice as you fear."

"What did you assume I would ask for?" she asked unable to hide her curiosity. _What_ _I've been longing for since the night of my symphony and what I plan on partaking in every single day after we've taken vows..._ "Well, I was unsure but once I saw that look I figured it would be something akin to the Crown Jewels." he replied with a shaky laugh. "Oh, I hardly think I could ever want for more jewellery; you've seen to that. Besides, I'm positive the Crown Jewels are positively boring compared to some of the pieces you've acquired." She flashed him an impish smile and quickly trained her gaze downward again under the ferocity of his stare. "I would like to thank you again for such a generous gift, Erik. It was too kind and I'm afraid I can never repay you for such extravagance."

"Nonsense. _The only recompense I ask is that you accept me as your h—_ " Utter panic washed across the visible half of his face and if the look she was giving him was any indication, she had definitely noticed his slip of the tongue. "...as your teacher once again. Would you care to practice until dinner is served?" he asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject, unable to quash the note of consternation that arose in his voice. _Utter fool!_

As he harshly castigated himself internally, Erik wondered if Christine had observed just how close he had come to ruining his entire plan. It was obvious she caught his blunder, but did she realize what he had almost said? Even though he desired more than anything to ask her right then and there, he could not bring himself to do so without the _necessary_ accouterments. Erik personally cared little for such conventions but he knew an angel such as Christine deserved better than a parlor proposal and an engagement only in word. _No, he would wait until the ring was ready if it killed him;_ and kill him it just might. Inwardly he knew that this was the best decision and in reality he should be waiting a full two years before even thinking to court her. A dark thought popped into his mind... _Would she say yes? Could he even expect her to do so? Was he selfish to even put her in such a position?_ Anger surged through him upon the realization that even in death, that damn _boy_ held the power to keep them apart.

Christine felt like her skull would explode as thousands of thoughts flooded her mind simultaneously. What had he almost said that caused him to hastily shift to another topic? _Could it be..._ did he intend to ask for her hand? Her heart attempted to scream over the torrent raging inside her head that she wanted nothing more. However with her heart's declaration, an unwelcome sense of rationality quickly emerged with guilt in tow. How could she wish for such a thing when Raoul hadn't been gone for three months? _Yes, Raoul: your husband, your protector, the love of your life._ Social custom dictated that she should be in mourning for at least two years, waiting a year before returning to society. _And yet, here she was..._ living with another man outside of marriage, wearing the brightly colored frocks and jewels he showered her with, attending high-society events on his arm, laughing and singing with him as though her husband never existed—she had even agreed to be in an opera, to return to stage! Moreover, they had engaged in amorous relations... _Oh God, what had she done? She was no better than the common harlot her late husband's friends and family accused her of being._ True, everybody in Erik's social circle had assumed that Raoul had perished in the Paris Commune two years earlier and none of them dared to concern themselves with her living arrangements. _But what if they were to find out the truth?_

"Christine?" She looked up upon hearing her name, noting the concern in his eyes. "Are you alright? Did you still want to practice?" His words brought her back into reality and she marvelled at his ability to soothe her troubles with only his voice. "I was simply lost in thought... But now that you ask, I believe I would rather sit for a spell. Will you play for me?" she asked slowly. "Certainly. What would you like to hear?"

"I—I... surprise me, please?" He nodded and watched as she took a seat on the couch, a small furrow creasing her brow. At that moment he would have given anything to read her mind; she had gone from amused to preoccupied in a matter of seconds. _Had she truly deciphered the proposal he had very nearly issued? Was she now mulling over ways to refuse?_ Without another word, Erik walked to the table in the corner of the room and removed his violin from its case, fussing over the bow in an attempt to shake such ideas from his head. He placed the instrument under his chin and was about to begin playing when he heard her speak. "Erik... may I ask you something?"

"Of course. What is on your mind, Christine?" he replied, dreading what her answer would be. "Why do you have a fainting couch in here? Only it's not a very masculine piece of furniture..." He might have laughed at its absurdity had her question not thoroughly perplexed him. How did he answer such an odd query? "Honestly, this is only the second time I've set foot in this room; the first was to furnish it when I purchased the house. _After you_ _—after what happened..._ when I first came to England," he corrected, stricken by how painfully fresh the memory still was, "I could not bring myself to play, however I found it equally impossible to renounce music completely. Knowing there were instruments within my grasp, even if I had no intention of playing them, put me somewhat at ease. Aside from that a music room seemed the done thing at the time. This particular room affords magnificent acoustics and it would be a shame to put that to waste." He rose from his chair and turned to face the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

Christine silently kicked herself when she saw the suffering in his eyes at the recollection. Why could she never hold her tongue? "But, I don't believe that answers your question. In truth, I did have an ulterior motive; I... I designed it with you in mind, Christine... in my infinite hope that one day we would meet again and I've been waiting for the right moment to unveil it ever since."

Christine was shocked, of all the answers he could have given, she hadn't expected this. " _For—for me?_ Thank you, Erik. But why are you only just now showing me? I mean what—what is the occasion?" she stuttered, turning as red as the furniture she was sitting on. In her flustered state she did not see him cross the room, only realizing his closeness when she felt him take her hands into his just as he had done a few minutes previous. "Ah, yes... You see, I needed a way to make amends and win back your favor, but as you've already pointed out, I've given you quite enough jewels." he said with a smirk as he knelt in front of her. "Why on earth would you be in need of my forgiveness, Erik?" she asked, knitting her brow in confusion. _Didn't he see that she should be the one prostrating herself at his feet?_ "For the reprehensible way in which I acted when we last saw one another and for my avoiding you. I should have sent word of my plans instead of worrying you needlessly with my extended absence. There was truly no ex—"

He would have continued but his apology came to an abrupt end when she tore her hands from his grasp and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Erik... how can I forgive you when you never fell out of favor in the first place? You did nothing wrong; I should have let you calm down before cornering you. Everybody I encountered at the concert hall warned me that you were in an awful mood and wished not to be disturbed, but I didn't listen. Honestly, even the most gentle soul would have been driven mad by such a confrontation so soon after an argument, especially after having been shot that very same morning."

Erik remained frozen in place, unsure if he was more stunned by her shifting blame unto herself or the contact she had initiated. "Well, it appears we are at an impasse, my dear, for each of us blames themselves." She relaxed her grasp and pulled back so that their faces were scant inches from one another. _When had being so near to him become so torturous?_ "Then we can agree to disagree, as long as I can still have use of this room." she replied with a playful grin. Erik found himself smiling back in admiration of her cheekiness, "We have a deal, my darling. Let us shake on it. _Or perhaps.._." He paused to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, leaning in as he did so, " _Seal it with a kiss?_ " he whispered huskily as he brought his lips to hers. _God, if she only knew of the excruciating delight he found in her every movement; if she only knew of the temptation he was feeling..._ Reluctantly he broke the kiss, fully aware that if it continued much longer he would lose complete control.

" _Shall I play for you now?_ " he asked breathlessly, his eyes boring into hers and betraying the magnitude of his desire. She said nothing, only staring back as if hypnotized. The simple act of kneeling before her and looking into her doe-brown eyes was chipping away at his resolve and he found himself leaning in to claim her lips once more, helpless to resist. However, before he could do so there was a knock at the door. "Dinner is ready, sir." The interruption proved a blessing for his restraint but an annoyance for every other part of him that was screaming to give into his longings. "Thank you, Elsie. We will be there shortly." he managed, a hint of his frustration showing through in the gruffness of his tone.

"Come, there will be hell to pay if we tarry and allow a meal she spent hours slaving over at my request to grow cold." He stood and offered her his arm, savoring her frown. Apparently she did not take any more kindly to the disruption than he. Erik felt her arm link with his and together they moved to exit the room. "I am flattered Mrs. Foley went through so much trouble on my behalf _but I am also quite crestfallen that I did not get to hear you play..._ " came her baleful reply, causing him to briefly wonder if he had imagined the double meaning lurking in her statement. "I suppose we will be obliged to remedy that after dinner." Erik replied with a chuckle, pulling her chair out for her when they reached the dining room. "Lamb ragout? Erik, you positively spoil me!" she exclaimed with a huge grin. He poured them both glasses of wine, enjoying the way her face lit up with her first mouthful of Mrs. Foley's delicious cooking. If only she knew the extent to which he planned on indulging her in the future; the very _near_ future, if he had any say in the matter.

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 **Uh-oh. Erik dropped his paper, do you think he will realize it? Will Reginald confront him with the knowledge? I'm not sure how he would take to that.**

 **Aww, Erik gave her an entire music room and even added a dig about her fainting. VERY sweet and Christine's right, he does spoil her. Also, pfft... like he wouldn't steal the Crown Jewels if she asked.**

 **What do you think, will she say yes when he does get around to asking (if ever, lol)?**

 **Please review!**


	22. A Little Practice

**iris2312: Glad you like the updates, even though they don't come as frequently as I would like. And, don't worry, they WILL end up together (maybe, haha) but there might be some speed bumps ahead.**

 **PhantomFan01: Yes, I think he definitely knows... but the question is, what will he do with that knowledge and what will become of him when Erik finds out? I think Christine knows in the back of her mind but hasn't fully come to accept it yet. Deep down, she's still VERY confused and understandably so.**

 **Man, I've been writing and writing... It seems I have to split up a lot of the chapters (one of which became three separate chapters). But good news! I got a certain special one written (if you catch my meaning). At any rate, we have more fluff until next chapter where an unexpected visitor drops by. Wonder who it could be?**

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Following Mrs. Foley's delicious dinner and equally special dessert Christine had unsurprisingly begged to return to the music room, much to Erik's delight; he had hoped she would like it but hadn't anticipated just _how_ much. As he watched her flit around the room from his place in the doorway, studying every instrument, sheet of music, and piece of furniture he felt a touch of vindication for his recent wrongs. Maybe this would be his golden opportunity to make things right between them and just _maybe_ she might give him the answer he longed for when the time came for him _to..._ "Erik?" Something lightly brushed his arm, he blinked slowly and there she was; the irony that she had managed to sneak up on him was not lost on either of them. "Who is the one with their head in the clouds now?" she said slyly.

"Well, it would appear that just as I cannot monopolize the aura of a phantom, neither can you do the same with daydreaming." he replied in amusement. "I can at last rest easy knowing that if the opera is ever rebuilt and in need of a ghost, you can fill the role quite admirably should I ever require a holiday." The look on her face made him wonder if his joke had gone too far. True, it had been two years since the disaster and it was a source of many bittersweet memories for both of them, but now under more favorable circumstances he could look at them with humor. But perhaps she did not feel the same way on the subject and right as he opened his mouth to backtrack, she let out a tinkling laugh. "And _I_ can rest easy knowing that should I fail miserably in my upcoming role, I will have a rather lucrative career to fall back on." She gave a small curtsy and wink, "I humbly thank you for your vote of confidence, Monsieur O.G."

While he had intended to make her laugh at his jest, he would never have predicted she would play into it. Christine stared at Erik's stony expression in an attempt to decipher if she had crossed the line. When he smirked she let out the breath she had been holding in; after such a blissful reunion the last thing she wanted to do was anger him. " _You know,_ " he said dangerously, stepping closer and beginning to circle her, "I _do not_ take kindly to those who mock me and I am sure you, of all people, know it unwise to displease the Opera Ghost." He ran his knuckles along her shoulders, dipping down the back of her arm as he spoke; his touches were feather-light but still induced chills throughout her body. " _Oh?_ And _how_ do you repay the foolish audacity of those who dare to lampoon you?"

Erik drew his fingers up the uncovered skin of her neck slowly, "Not in a way you would find too unpleasurable, _I'm sure..._ " he whispered as he tipped her head to the side so that their lips almost met. Christine was almost positive she would combust on the spot. His nearness coupled with the heat of his breath set her every sense alight, making her head swim and legs buckle; and they would have had his solid frame not supported her. _Was he aware of_ _what he was doing to her?_ One look at his smug expression revealed that he did and was relishing in it. _Why hadn't he moved in to kiss her yet?_ Impatience and aggravation began to stir in her stomach alongside whatever else his presence always generated.

He noticed the frustration in her eyes and somehow it only encouraged him to linger and savor, rather arrogantly, that he had such an enormous effect on her. " _Christine..._ " She trembled at the way his lips virtually brushed hers when he spoke. " _Y-yes?_ " _Oh, the way she shuddered and exhaled..._ He knew she was helpless to resist, just a few millimeters closer and he could seal her fate. But where was the fun in that? Besides, it had a very high chance of backfiring on him; until now he hadn't realized that he too was teetering precariously close to the edge. So, reassuring himself that he wouldn't have to hold back once they were legally bound, he reluctantly decided to end this game. "Ah, it would behoove us to stop wasting time and work in some practice before the clock strikes twelve. Though you have some of the credentials, it would be a terrible waste to see you resort to such a spectral trade; a creature as beautiful as yourself does not belong hidden in shadow. Come, let's see what can be done to avoid such a fate..."

 _Ugh, she could have killed him in that moment!_ From the self-satisfied glint in his eye to the way he abruptly turned from her and nonchalantly made his way to the piano, Christine wanted nothing more than to give him a good slap, seize him by the lapels and pull him in to finish what he had so callously denied her. In an attempt to avoid just that and steady her nerves, she tried to make friendly discourse. " _Oh, stop this!_ It's no secret that the only reason I managed to ambush you was because you were distracted. Speaking of, what was it that had you so engrossed in the first place?" _The thought of every sinful thing I plan to do to you after we're married._ "Just that I should have had the foresight to stock this room with smelling salts to complement the couch. Now, are you going to sing from across the room or would you like me to move the piano over to your current position?" She rolled her eyes, fully aware that it was pointless to pursue, and did as she was instructed. Their practice session was over before she even knew it, having forgotten how time flew by when she immersed herself in music.

Once the lesson had concluded, Christine asked to remain in the room until they went to bed; it had become her favorite place in the entire house, despite having only known of its existence for less than half of a day. Erik was more than happy to oblige; for him, it was a source of immeasurable pride that his gift had been so well-received. So they sat down on the large fainting couch and spent the rest of the evening catching up, each of them sharing several mundane things that had transpired over the last week. Soon the pair had kicked off their shoes, with him undressing down to his shirtsleeves, and gotten more comfortable. Erik had reclined some time ago, pulling Christine between his legs so that she could stretch out fully and rest the back of her head on his chest. Although it was an intimate position there was no sinister motive behind it, each of them was too wrapped up in their tales to think of such things.

"Tell me again about how Colonel Crawford found you!" she said clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle when he got to the part of how the man had confronted him at the theatre earlier that day. " _Apparently_ he had come to the concert hall insistent on seeing if the reports concerning strange deliveries and foul smells emitting from the basement were indeed true. In his haste to unearth whether or not I had finally snapped and taken up necromancy or worse, the idiot charged into the basement without even thinking to first cover his nose or hold his breath. Luckily for the old fool, I happened to be down there; though I could hardly have been blamed for his death had I not been."

This last bit earned him a look. "I _hardly_ believe I should be held accountable for any injuries he incurs as a direct result of his boundless stupidity. Besides, I reached him in time and no harm was done, except perhaps to his pride. It would appear that the clod's swoon would rival your own, my dear." She turned to flash him an indignant glare and playfully swatted him on the leg. He laughed, "You forget that _you_ were the inspiration behind the piece of furniture we are currently seated on. I think I might have even made this solely into a fainting room, had the acoustics not persuaded me otherwise."

"Please! Would you stop exaggerating? I do not faint _that_ often!" she huffed, crossing her arms. He smiled devilishly and began recounting the times she had. "Yes, yes, _alright..._ But still just a handful. It's not as if I am some delicate flower who collapses twice a day! And have you ever considered what hand you might have in it? Because you seem to be present for each and every instance!"

Her rant was met with another rich laugh from him. "Well, I _have_ always possessed a certain talent for making women's knees go weak..." Christine cursed her thoughtless accusation, it was only meant in humor but it was clear that he was referring to his face. She was so busy bracing herself for his anger that she was caught completely off-guard by his reaction. In a flash, he sat up and spun her around so that they were face to face. "Are you attempting to tell me that I alone cause you to swoon?" he growled seductively, pulling her closer. " _I-I..._ " she stammered unable to find the words. Erik grabbed her hands and stroked them gently. " _You're shaking..._ Tell me, are you feeling dizzy? _Am I making you lightheaded?_ " he whispered, drinking in her wide-eyed shock as he moved in to deliver the kiss she had been longing for ever since they returned to the music room.

She breathed his name unaware she had spoken aloud until he pulled back slightly, much to her disappointment. " _Yes?_ " he answered innocently, noting with satisfaction how her face fell. Didn't anybody ever teach him not to play with his food? All this toying was beginning to wear on her and she opened her mouth to say as much but she was interrupted by the chiming of a clock announcing it was eleven. "Hmm, it is getting very late and I must confess I've not had much sleep the past week. We should probably retire for the evening." he said, feigning a yawn and rising to his feet. Was he serious? Instantly she was filled with frustration and rage, unsure which was stronger; but seeing he was not planning on capitulating she begrudgingly followed suit, stumbling a bit as she stood. Erik stepped forward at once, gripping her arms gently to steady her. "Are you quite alright? You still appear to be dazed. Shall I carry you up to your room?"

" _No thank you_ , I am fine. My leg must have gone numb from sitting too long." she spat through gritted teeth, jerking out of his grasp. The extent to which she wanted him vexed her endlessly but maybe there was still a chance. If she could re-engage him in their earlier conversation, his resolve might finally slip. So, pushing her irritation aside, she looked up at him and said sweetly, "You never _did_ tell me what you were doing in the basement that caused the poor Colonel to make such an insidious assumption." Unfortunately, he saw straight through her ploy and would have none of it. "You are correct, my dear, but regrettably the rest of my narrative must wait until tomorrow." he said, turning away. "UGH! _You're impossible!_ " she countered in dissatisfaction; storming past him and back to her room, failing to see his prideful smirk.

Christine was still muttering under her breath as she combed out her hair violently, secretly relieved that it was Dorothy's day off. She didn't think she could explain the reason behind her foul mood without embarrassment. " _Who does he think he is?!_ " she asked her reflection bitterly. He clearly knew exactly what he was doing to her and didn't even have the good grace to pretend it was unintentional. _The nerve of it all!_ Suddenly, amidst all her raving an idea floated into her head. Perhaps it was time to flip the stakes and gain the upper-hand. As it was said, _two could play at that game._ Surely it would be rewarding to knock him down a few notches, but she had to be careful to implement her strategy at the right moment. With that, she triumphantly climbed into bed and doused the gas lamp with a wicked grin; soon lured into a peaceful slumber by the enticing prospect of giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Erik was indeed in very high spirits when he finally made his way upstairs and while he dressed for bed he gave a small prayer of thanks for his fortune at how the night had gone. Smiling to himself, he picked up his discarded jacket and reached into the pocket, feeling a sudden urge to look at the paper he had tucked inside earlier. However, his expression quickly changed when he realized it was missing. He searched the floor of his bedroom anxiously, hoping that it had slipped from his jacket when he threw it onto the chair moments ago but his quest yielded no results. It was most likely still in the music room and he panicked slightly at the possibility that Christine might find it but relaxed when he recognized that he would rise long before her. _No matter_ , he would continue his pursuit tomorrow and question Elsie on whether she had found it, knowing full-well that the maid wouldn't look at it.

The next morning he rose shortly after dawn and retraced his steps unsuccessfully. It turned out that Elsie had not come across it, nor had it fell off his person in the carriage. Had he left it back at the concert hall? _No, that couldn't be_ ; he distinctly remembered stealing a peek before he left ... _Damn!_ That meant Reginald was in possession of it! Although a voice in his head was screaming to pay the colonel a visit immediately, Erik decided against it. After all, he had already taken the day off and would just have to wait until tomorrow's concert to find out. Besides, there were more pressing matters that required his attention, first and foremost the mask he had spent the past week and a half crafting.

It was his intention to reveal it at the concert the following evening and there was no shortage of details he wished to add before then. In its present state it was more than passable to the common eye, but it failed to pass muster under his meticulous scrutiny. Perhaps in another time he might not have cared so much, but now the stakes were much higher and the driving force fueling his perfectionist tendencies was the thought of Christine. Last night he had explicitly avoided any mention of his project because it was her alone he wished to surprise. _How would she react?_ _Would she treat him the same?_ It was one thing for her to accept him as he was, but that was because she had never seen any different. Well, tomorrow he would have his answer. _Tomorrow._ Was it really that close?

Originally he had resolved to not tell a soul, but the infernal twit of a colonel had forced him to break with this notion and afterwards he had taken precautions to avoid anybody else from knowing. The mask was currently his best-guarded secret, other than his designs to propose. And now his wretched idiot of a friend was privy to both! Erik scowled at this realization, taking out the mask and starting to work to ease his mind, praying that the man wouldn't be daft enough to examine the paper if he had stumbled upon it.

He was mercifully afforded several hours to dedicate to his enterprise before Christine awoke. The rest of the day was very similar to the previous night with her eager to fit in as much practice as possible before Monday's rehearsal. Not that this was any cause for complaint.

"So there is a concert tomorrow? What are they performing?" she asked a second time. "Yes. It's nothing too exciting; just your standard Baroque compositions from Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, and ... _Telemann_." There was an evident sour note in his voice as he said the final name. "I take it you aren't overly fond of that last one. Why choose his work if that's the case?" she asked with a chortle.

" _That is to put it mildly_. Each time I am forced to endure his compositions, I feel as though I am borne back in time to a seventeenth century parlor wherein a gaggle of flighty noblewomen pluck away tunelessly at the harpsichord. It very well may be the dullest, most repetitive dribble ever classified as music. _My God_ , his chamber works alone are enough cause for a man to wish himself deaf! Have you been unfortunate enough to hear his, _Tafelmusik_? I could play it for you if you wish but I cannot promise that you will be able to prevent me from driving my bow through my heart before concluding the first page. If you never find truth in any word that henceforth leaves my lips, believe that I would _never_ choose a single piece of his. However, the imbecile who conducts my orchestra was responsible for this atrocity; apparently he holds Telemann in the same esteem as the Lord, himself." At this point, Christine's giggles had dissolved into full laughter at the fervor behind his description, what's more was that he was completely serious. "And _what_ , pray tell, is so amusing?" he asked, looking at her like she had sprouted a second head.

"I'm ... sorry for laughing but it's... _it's just_ I've never heard anyone so adamantly dislike a composer." she replied, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. " _Oh?_ I assure you this isn't a courtesy I solely extend to that charlatan. Would you like me to list the others I consider abysmal?" He raised his brow and cocked his head to the side. "Or perhaps, you would prefer _other_ words of passion?" His eyes narrowed as he seized her hand and traced little circles in her palm, his other combing through her long curls. " _Shall I tell you how one glance from you leaves me breathless?_ _Should I inform you that just to be so near to you is sheer agony?_ _Or do I confess how much I desire you?_ " Christine was so entranced by the aphrodisiacal blue of his eyes that she did not register how he seemed to come closer with each question, ultimately finding her earlobe with his mouth and blazing a trail of kisses down her neck. She let out a small moan right as he ceased his exploration. "As much as it pains me to say it, we have a rather busy day tomorrow..." _Damn him!_ Once again Erik had her at a disadvantage and used the opportunity to tease her mercilessly as he had been doing since the previous day. Although she was still reeling with unfulfillment and ire, she allowed him to escort her to her room. Before long he would be the one begging for quarter and her heart leapt at the thought. At this point, she was just biding her time and so far it had paid off... he had unintentionally revealed how much he wanted her; information she conspired to put to good use in the near future.

When at last each of them were tucked into their respective beds, it seemed neither could capture sleep. Christine tossed and turned for several hours wondering how to implement her plan regarding turning the tables, while Erik was riddled with anxiety over how she would respond to his mask. In the early hours of the morning, exhaustion at last took her. However, after a few hours of light sleep he awoke and added some finishing touches to his new project trying not to pay heed to how nervous he was.

* * *

 **The next chapter is soon to follow, yay!**

 **Uh-oh, Erik finally realized he doesn't have his ring plans. Will he figure out who _does_ have them and go crazy?**

 **I don't blame Erik for his hatred of Telemann *shudder*.**

 **How do you think Christine will react to the new mask? Maybe that fainting couch will see some action after all!**


	23. A Dear Old Friend

**iris2312: Thanks! Well, the wait is over, lol. Yes, he is a multi-faceted man and I wanted to cover as many areas of his personality as possible. Just like the character in Kay's novel, he DOES have a dry sense of humor and I think it would probably come out more when he is truly comfortable with someone. As for the passionate side, in every story or production he has that dark allure. Yummy!**

 **PhantomFan01: Soon you will see her reaction! Hahaha, and I think he is starting to realize the impact he has on Christine, but there's still a part of him that won't ever embrace the Don Juan persona fully. And, with her plans to even the score, he had better watch out because his little game may backfire completely. Whoops, did I just give something away? Maaaaybe. ;)**

 **Whoo! Double chapters. Actually, this one was one whole chapter but got split from the previous when it reached over 6,000 words.  
**

 **I would have posted it sooner BUT little bro got back from his class trip today and I had errands to run. I also decided to add onto it a bit. Anyways, this is one of the chapters where we meet someone from the past; keep reading to find out who!**

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The day of the concert went by quickly enough. Erik had informed her that he had some things that required his attention after breakfast, although he still managed to find an hour to tutor her following lunch. And in no time, she was back in her room rifling through dresses alongside her plucky little maid. "I've got it, my lady! This one and the sapphires." Dorothy squealed, pulling an alluring periwinkle gown of lace-trimmed satin from the wardrobe. Christine nodded in awe, "Well done, Dorothy! I would be lost without you. But, I don't remember seeing that dress before..." The young girl looked at the floor sheepishly, "No, you wouldn't have. Master Erik had me stock your wardrobe while you were in the music room; I brought these in the servant's entrance. Here, let me show you the rest; they're all so pretty!"

Without waiting for Christine's approval, the maid brought out five additional evening gowns and three day dresses and laid them across her bed. They were all made from the finest materials, as expected, and according to Dorothy were the latest fashions for The Season. There was a veritable palette of colors ranging from stil de grain yellow to zaffre; but her absolute favorite was a striking coquelicot silk gown with ivory trim. For a moment she considered asking to wear this instead but something told her it would be better saved for a more special occasion.

At around seven, Mrs. Foley came up to let her know that Erik was waiting in the parlor and five minutes later Christine emerged from her room and went downstairs. Strangely, when she walked in the room he did not move to face her; even though it was obvious from the way his shoulders tensed that he was aware of her presence. "Ah, the sapphires and the periwinkle gown, an excellent choice. Elsie mentioned it to me when she came down a few moments ago." he said, reading her mind. "May I ask why you haven't turned to see it for yourself, then?" This was odd behavior even for him and to say she was thoroughly baffled would have been an understatement. _Was this another one of his infuriating tests? Did he expect her to approach him first?  
_

"Christine... I have uh—something I would like you to see. Please try not to be too startled, after all there is no fainting couch nor are there any smelling salts in this room." _To hell with his cryptic sarcasm!_ _What was going on?_ She racked her brain in an effort to unravel what he meant by his comment. Had he chosen to go without his mask? _Not much could be more shocking than that._ But upon realizing he would never do such a thing, she ultimately could come up with nothing else. "O-of course." Taking her reply as permission, Erik spun around very slowly with a deep exhale.

She let out a gasp at the sight before her. There was Erik but with no sign of his signature mask and no deformity; his face instead appeared just as normal as her own. He initially kept his head bent but looked up carefully when she didn't faint or flee. "Y-your mask. _W-what? H-how?_ " was all she could manage, each thing she tried to say coming out jumbled. "It's still a mask of sorts, but different. I'll explain more later but I developed it for the opera we are to star in. I thought tonight was as good as any to debut it." She approached him, eager to view his face in greater detail, but stopped when she realized how uncomfortable her actions would make him. "Oh, Erik, as I've told you numerous times, your face does not matter to me. I would look on you just as favorably with or without the mask. It will take a bit of adjusting to, but overall you've done a fantastic job; I can't even tell where the real skin ends and the mask begins."

He pulled her to him unexpectedly and placed a chaste peck on her mouth. "Not a single moment passes where I do not find myself marvelling over what I've done to deserve you, my darling. Forgive me for not telling you just how captivating you look tonight." he said flirtatiously, planting another kiss on the back of her gloved hand. She smiled, "You look very dashing as well; you did always look incredibly fetching in white tie. I fear I shall have to keep a better eye on you in light of this new mask. If women like Elizabeth were persistent before, they will come by the swarm now." she replied cheekily. "Perhaps, but they shall all be disappointed to find that I only have eyes for one great beauty. Let's be off, the carriage is outside and we should not be late, no matter how much I wish to be absent for Telemann."

The ride to the concert hall went smoothly and in spite of her insatiable desire to find out more about the mask, she trusted he would reveal everything when he deemed it appropriate. Of course she had grown used to the white one and she found herself a bit intimidated by the new development. Now that he could walk among the crowds as a complete person, would he leave her behind in the dust? She had always considered him a handsome man, even with part of his face covered and from what she heard from Annabelle, William, and Reginald, she hadn't been alone in her opinion. But with this flesh-like mask, Christine was a bit taken aback by just how attractive he really was and hoped it would not change how he felt about her. Instantaneously she was filled with a foreign jealous possessiveness, he was _hers_ and she was willing to fight tooth and nail to make her claim known if necessary.

When they arrived they were greeted by an equally astounded William and Annabelle and a slightly less awestruck Reginald and John. Evidently the four knew better than to inquire about their friend's new appearance and after a fond reunion, they made their way to Erik's box. Despite his grimace when the Telemann piece was played, Christine found she rather enjoyed the night's production; and from the sound of the applause, it seemed the audience shared her sentiment. But as they exited their box and made their way to the entrance, she found herself pondering over what the remainder of the evening would bring. Would he have to stay and meet important figures or would he brush off his appointments and return to the townhouse with her? If the latter happened, would he take his seduction techniques to the next level and attempt to recreate the pleasure they had shared that other night following a concert? As they came to the lobby, she was unable to rein in her curiosity any longer.

"Aren't you coming home, Erik?" she asked. "But of course, my dear. However, I must retrieve something from my office first." he replied, stroking her cheek. "Well, in that case, I will wait for you. Besides, Annabelle and William should provide ample conversation until you finish." She crossed her arms and stood there, daring him to send her away. Erik chuckled inwardly at her growing defiance, perhaps he was rubbing off on her. "Very well, I promise not to be long." He squeezed her hand and flashed her a smirk before walking off.

Erik entered the office eager to honor his word, quickly locating what he was after. While he was there, he grabbed a fountain pen and scribbled a reply to the telegram he had received that morning from Paris. As he was signing his name, there was a knock at the door. "Enter." he said dismissively, checking his watch. _Had he been too long?_ To his chagrin, he looked up to see Reginald. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked rather rudely.

"You _did_ give me permission to enter and I did so as is usually customary. Is your memory slipping, my friend?" Erik scowled, the last thing he needed was to be drawn into some pointless conversation with this oaf when all he wanted to do was slip away with Christine. "That I did... _mistakenly_ , I might add. What is it that you require, Colonel? I was just about to leave." Reginald only smiled, an action which he noticed annoyed the younger man to no end and he made a mental note to do it more often. "Ah, I apologize. In that case, I will keep this brief. The other night you dropped this piece of paper in my parlor and I thought something this important should be returned promptly."

"So... you _did_ look at it, then. Is the word, 'privacy' even in your pathetic lexicon? You should give thanks to all that you hold holy that I am in such a hurry tonight, or you might very well come to regret your meddling. I should also feel compelled to remind you that in no way would something be considered _prompt_ after two days have passed." he countered in annoyance, hoping his gruff tone would bring an end to the exchange.

Unfortunately, the man would not be so easily dissuaded and all but ignored Erik's threats. As he reached out to take back the page, the colonel pulled his hand back. "Well, excuse me for viewing a piece of paper that I discover in my own parlor, an _unsealed_ one at that. If you do not want any prying eyes to look upon it, I suggest you familiarize yourself with envelopes." _Drat! He did have a point as painful as it was to admit._ "Somehow I doubt even an envelope would have kept you at bay. Next time I think I shall just sprinkle in some poison as a security measure."

"Oh yes, _that_ would be ingenious and when you've accidentally poisoned yourself, maybe you will finally come to realize how absolutely grating your abrasive headstrong attitude is to those around you!" Reginald countered rolling his eyes. "As long as I have a say in it, you will never have the satisfaction. Trust me, I would never make such a stupid error. Firstly, I would be sure to have an antidote on hand and secondly, I would not open it without taking the necessary precautions."

"Hmm... how long have you thought about such things? Tell me, should I start opening all future correspondence from you with a pair of gloves and one of those blasted respirators you made me wear the other day?" Erik just shrugged, "That depends on how much longer you intend to delay me." The older man shook his head slowly, sometimes the composer could be so difficult. "I apologize for examining your designs, I had no idea you planned to... Nevertheless, the piece is absolutely exceptional; I take it you contrived it yourself? My Lord, man, all of these stones must have cost a small fortune! How could you have known a jeweller would be able to supply them all and in the quality detailed?" he inquired with astonishment. "Yes, I conceived everything myself and I knew because I supplied them, you dolt! Now—" _Would he ever be rid of this plague of a man?!_

"Do you own some far-off gem mine that I am unaware of? How else would you have acquired emeralds, diamonds, and such a large sapphire?" the colonel interrupted. _All these accursed questions!_ Although he considered Reginald his friend, Erik was beginning to believe it might just be quicker to snap his neck and have done with it.

"Emeralds and diamonds only, no sapphires; the center-stone is a diamond as well. May I go or are there more pointless inquiries you'd care to make this evening?" Erik said irritably. "Well, I would hardly call them pointless, but I am desperate to know more about this ring. You can hardly show a man something so unique and not expect him to wish to know more... Let's see, if you tell me about it, I swear to leave you be for the remainder of the weekend, my boy." The younger man scowled, knowing full-well the colonel's predilection for inquisitiveness.

"Need I remind you that I did not show you anything. But very well, I will tell you once and then I will take my leave. Do not expect me to repeat myself, I've kept her waiting quite long enough. I'm sure you are aware of my rather ... _intriguing_ past and vast travels." Reginald nodded. "During these various adventures I managed to obtain several pieces of jewellery and various loose gemstones. I do not truly know _why_ I kept them, but I could never bear to part from the most superb of these treasures; I suppose I believed that one day my hoarding would serve a purpose and it finally has. I made appointments with the best jewellers in London and on the Continent and found their ring selections to be sorely disappointing and wholly unimaginative. That was when I decided to just create something, after all Christine deserves a ring as equally stunning as herself. Aside from that, there was the added bonus that I'd have a chance to utilize these gems. I went through scores of arrangements before ultimately designing the one you so rudely appropriated two nights ago. I painstakingly selected the best diamonds and emeralds but was at a loss as to what stone to put in the most important place. Another emerald or diamond? Or a sapphire, perhaps? Yet, none met my criteria. Then I found it innocuously hidden amongst the other jewels, a diamond like no other."

" _A diamond?_ But it's blue... I was unaware they came in that color! Are you certain it is—" he instantly regretted voicing his doubts when he heard the growl escape his friend's lips. "Yes, _quite_ sure. I've both had it inspected by several professionals in addition to subjecting it to my own scrutiny. Not to boast, but I believe myself capable of distinguishing a sapphire from a diamond at the very least. I am sure you are aware that the two aforementioned stones do not share the same composition and I would be more than happy to give you a lesson in the chemical make up of both if you would prefer..." Reginald shook his head, ashamed that he had challenged Erik's knowledge.

"Good. Anyways, when I first accrued the stone, it was over six carats. After being cut, it will be reduced to around 3 carats but will also be internally flawless. As you are apparently unaware, diamonds come in a multitude of colors. This particular one is classified as 'fancy vivid blue,' and will be brilliantly cut into an oval-shape. The entire thing is to be set in platinum by the Parisian jeweller Louis-François Cartier. Under my specific instructions detailing the settings and cuts of each stone, I have faith that this shall sweep her off her feet. However, it does help that the man is afraid of me and this along with the handsome sum he will receive should ensure that everything is carried out to perfection." The colonel suddenly got an uneasy feeling that should this Cartier chap dissatisfy, it would be the last thing he would ever do. "I also feel I should remind you that should another soul learn of my plan, you will not live to see another sunrise. Do I make myself clear?"

A small silence followed once the conversation had ended and Erik took it to mean his warning was noted and he was allowed to escape. "Ah, so am I at last free to go and this ridiculous inquisition has reached its end? Is there nothing else that piques your interest before I vacate; perhaps the tools they will use to cut the stones? Or how many facets each of them will have? Maybe the name of Cartier's dog? Speak now, good man, for if you do not I will feel free to take my leave." he said acerbically. Reginald decided it would be better to remain quiet than to risk his friend's wrath so he gave a curt shake of his head. " _Excellent!_ Now, I bid you a good—" With that, he turned to exit but was halted by another knock on the door.

"Good God, will these intrusions ever cease?! _ENTER!_ " He regretted his harshness when it occurred to him that it could very well be Christine. But, admittedly the person who walked in was the farthest from any imaginable expectations and Erik stood dumbstruck as if he had seen a ghost and maybe he had, for there grinning in the doorway was none other than that incorrigible Persian. _How in the world had this man located him? What were the odds of such a scenario occurring?_ At the moment, he didn't care to mull it over; he was already in a rush to leave and had already forsaken his promise to return in a timely manner.

"Erik, what a pleasure to see you again! Merciful Allah, your face it's—" the newcomer began, his exclamation cut short by Erik's voice. "I suggest you choose your next words carefully; you'll find I can still kill you without a qualm. And, as far as pleasantries go, that depends on who you ask... what on earth are you doing in London, Daroga, let alone in my theatre of all places? Wait, I don't wish to know, I am late to meet someone as it is. Maybe I will call on you later in the week to reconvene."

"Do you know this man?" Reginald asked, obviously confused by the spectacle in front of him. He sighed seeing no way to avoid it, "Yes, quite unfortunately so. He is an old friend from my time spent in Persia."

"Well, now, would you care to introduce us?" The Persian asked, glad to see the masked man's dry wit hadn't subsided over the years. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tightly; he could swear that he heard God laughing at his comical misfortune from the heavens above. "I am never going to get out of this bloody office, so why not? Nadir Khan this is Colonel Reginald Crawford of the Royal Engineer's, my partner and the man responsible for the creation of the concert hall you are currently standing in. Reginald, meet Nadir Khan, an old ally from Persia and former daroga of Mazanderan. Seeing as you two have been properly acquainted, I will finally make my departure; Reginald here would be more than happy to furnish you with my address. Good eve—" He watched the men shake hands awkwardly, not caring how rude it was to throw two random people together and expect them to converse.

The door opened yet again and Erik had to hop out of the way to dodge it. This time it was the very person he had been trying so hard to get back to and he tried frantically to read her expression. _Was she upset or annoyed?_ "Erik, _there you are!_ I thought you had forgotten about me but I would have come a lot sooner had I known you were having some sort of gathering up here without me." Christine said teasingly, surveying Reginald and a foreign man she had never before seen in the room with him. "It is by no means a gathering, more so an ambush. Believe me, my dear, I have been trying in vain to return for the past quarter of an hour!" Thankfully she was in good spirits. But because his attention was focused on her, he failed to observe the stunned look on the Persian's face. If he had, Erik might have been able to predict what would happen next.

"What is this? Disappearing so soon, old friend? Here it has been over ten years and you try to withdraw without first presenting me to this ravishing vision? Allow me, Mademoiselle, I am Nadir Khan." The olive-skinned man stepped forward with a small bow and placed a kiss on her hand. _Damn!_ Now he'd never be rid of him... "Christine de Chagny. It's delightful to meet you, Monsieur Khan; I take it you are an associate of Erik's?"

"You would be correct, we have quite a history together. I'm surprised he has never before mentioned me. It's a pity you two are in such a rush, I was rather looking forward to catching up and learning more about yourself, dear lady." the man replied smoothly. "Yes, Erik, why didn't you tell me you were expecting such a charming old friend?" She flashed him a questioning look before continuing, "Such a shame that we already have plans for the evening, Monsieur. Although, I believe I speak for both of us when I say Erik and myself would be charmed if you were to join us for dinner tomorrow night. Of course you are invited as well, Colonel Crawford, as will be Annabelle, William, and John. I trust you are meeting with the latter two at the club later this evening, will you be so kind as to pass on the invitation?" Reginald nodded.

 _Was this really happening?_ "T-tomorrow? Do you not think the task of preparing a menu for an entire party on such short notice will inconvenience Elsie?" Erik asked, obviously flabbergasted by Christine's charitable extension. "Oh, nonsense, seven people is hardly a party! She was just telling me yesterday after breakfast that she just had the larder restocked. As long as we speak to her tonight, there shouldn't be an issue." Perceiving no way out of this he just stood there with his mouth agape. "Splendid, then it's settled! Tomorrow evening at say, eight o'clock sharp?"

"Yes, that works quite well for me." said Reginald, unable to disguise his amusement at Christine's boldness. "As does it for me. But are you sure it is not too much of an imposition?" asked Nadir, his eyes briefly shifting to Erik. "Heavens no, Monsieur Khan! It would be our pleasure, isn't that right, Erik?" She raised a brow at him as if challenging him to object. _Damn, there was no way he would be able to avoid this._ "Yes, absolutely, my dear." he said in resignation. "Delightful! We look forward to seeing you then. Until tomorrow, gentlemen, and good evening." Christine concluded with a small curtsy.

As soon as she finished speaking, Erik wasted no time in linking arms with her and retreating with what remained of his pride. Neither of them spoke until they were safely in the carriage on the way back to his house. "There's no need to look so glum, Erik. You really are too antisocial for your own good." she said, squeezing his hand. "And you are truly too wicked for yours..." he responded with a soft chuckle. It was impossible to be angry with her, especially since it was in her sweet and vivacious nature to make everybody feel welcome, even if they were a meddlesome Persian. Still, he couldn't help but worry over what Nadir would reveal to her; there was a _very good_ reason that he hadn't made any mention of his past. Would this new twist of events interfere with his plans for a future with Christine? _Well, it's not like she is unaware you're a murderer._ Unfortunately, there was nothing to do but wait until tomorrow and have faith things wouldn't go too badly.

* * *

 **Aww, her reaction was sweet. What do you think of her newfound worries?**

 **Well, at least Erik got his paper back. Too bad he had to explain everything to Reginald. As for the ring, don't worry. It will be described in full detail later. I might even draw it, but I have to get some gouache first. So far we've learnt that it the center stone is a 3-carat, oval-shaped fancy vivid blue diamond (which is a lot lighter than the Hope Diamond and sort of comparable to a dark aquamarine in color) flanked by emeralds and colorless diamonds and set in platinum.**

 **Uh-oh, look who's back and with a bang?!**

 **Poor Erik, Christine totally walked all over him there. How will the dinner party go I wonder?**


	24. A Surprisingly Pleasant Evening

**What's this? A third update? Yeah, I sort of wrote all of this last night because it just came to me. It's funny because each time I start a new chapter, I do so with the aim of including the rehearsal but then I run out of space; this has been happening since like the last 4 chapters. But, without a doubt the next chapter will contain the rehearsal. Then there will be some more stuff leading up to the actual opera and so on.**

 **PhantomFan01: If you are curious, I am a HUGE fan of Van Cleef & Arpels and although they weren't around until much later than when the story is set, they were definitely a big inspiration for the ring. Look at some of the pieces in the High Jewellery collection, you won't be disappointed! And, yes, it was a good thing she didn't faint because there was no fainting couch and that would have been _terribly_ inconvenient. **

* * *

"Erik, did you hear me? Our guests have arrived." Christine's voice rudely penetrated the cocoon of music he had been sheltering himself in for the past hour. "Forgive me, dearest, I must have gotten distracted. Have Yardley show them to the drawing room and I will join you all momentarily." he said with a halfhearted smile, deciding he needed another minute to steel his nerves before he could face what lay ahead. "Of course, but _don't_ take too long." She planted a kiss on his cheek before exiting the room, obviously excited to play her role as hostess.

Although he was an unwilling participant in the evening's festivities, he had still seen fit to ask the butler to be present; he was still a gentleman with a desire for propriety, even if he was too much of a coward to face his past. The butler had come with the house but by the time Erik had purchased it, the man was getting on in years and seeing as he had no intention of having company he had tempted the servant into retirement with a cushy pension. But, as his popularity grew, he had seen fit to amend the man's contract to extend to the occasional dinner party or odd two days a week; a fact he was currently thankful for.

By the time he took a deep breath and walked into the drawing room, his guests were just finishing with introductions under Christine's bright smile. She really _had_ matured exponentially from the timid girl under his tutelage at the opera and now she looked positively radiant. He found himself wondering if these diplomatic skills were a result of her time spent as a Vicomtesse, what else could explain the graceful ease with which she took up the mantle as lady of the house? Either way he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt that she wouldn't get much of a chance to fulfill that duty if she accepted his proposal. It was one thing to attend such functions but entirely a different matter to be the one hosting them. Yet, even he knew it would be a grievous crime to cage such beauty and force his wretched preference for solitude unto her. Maybe he would put on the rare gathering just to please her... After all, it seemed a small price to pay for getting to call such a divine angel his own.

True to Christine's statement the night before, Mrs. Foley had only been too happy to showcase her exceptional cooking skills for more than just two people and had the menu drawn up before bed. While Erik had been indifferent and left it in Christine's hands, feigning a headache for a chance to sulk up to his room he had to admit she had done an admirable job overseeing the entire thing; it was almost as if she was born to be the mistress of some great house. This sentiment was furthered when everybody was seated and she initiated a flowing dialogue. _Perhaps this dinner wouldn't be as bad as he previously thought!_ And for the first time since this dreaded event was planned, he felt at ease. At least he did until Christine turned to Nadir and all but begged him to regale everyone with an anecdote from his and Erik's history.

"...I go out onto the balcony and there he is holding the shah's most prized feline as if it was nothing at all. To this day, I haven't a clue how he smuggled that blasted, vicious creature all the way from the palace to Mazandaran. Would you care to finally share your secrets, Erik?" Nadir pressed, having completed his sixth narrative. However, for the benefit of his own sanity, Erik had zoned out after the second one. Five other curious faces focused on him at the Persian's inquiry and he found himself fighting the urge to wrap his hands around the other man's throat. Earlier that day he had promised Christine to keep his temper but with each story the insufferable moron told, he felt his resolve slip more. Grinding his teeth together in an attempt to bite back his ire, he answered with as much civility as he could muster. "Oh, but surely _you_ of all people are aware that a magician never shares the methods behind his illusions. I suppose you must suffer through the rest of your life in wretched ignorance, daroga."

Despite a few crestfallen looks from his guests, nobody challenged his response. _Good, at least he still held some semblance of power within his own home._ "Please, don't let Erik's terseness affect you too much, Monsieur Khan; I'm afraid he is not very used to being the center of attention. I for one would love to hear more stories from your time together in Persia." Christine said, squeezing his hand under the table in encouragement. _Oh God, what fresh betrayal was this?_ "As would I, sir!" Annabelle chimed in. _Well, there was no hope now._ And so the tales continued for the remainder of dinner, much to his complete chagrin. Though, he had to give the Persian credit for his abridgement and for not revealing the darker aspects of his time in the foreign land.

After the meal concluded, Christine eagerly whisked a starry-eyed Annabelle off to show her the music room, leaving the four men to venture back into the drawing room for libations. Thankfully the guests began taking their leave shortly thereafter. John was the first to rise from his seat, "Well, gentleman, as riveting as this evening has been, I _do_ have an appointment to keep with that deplorable Lord Haxby over the entail he is attempting to set up before his son's marriage to that heiress. For whatever reason, he thinks my life should be subject to his every noble whim and evidently he does not believe the Lord's Sabbath applies to us lowly solicitors too. It was a delight to meet you, Mister Khan, and something I hope to repeat in the near future. I look forward to hearing more of our dear Erik's misadventures, although preferably unedited for the sensibilities of the ladies." He smirked cheekily at his friend's frown. "And you, dear chap, who knew you were such a scoundrel in your youth? It makes me regret not having met you sooner. Please give my regards to the lovely Christine." Erik only nodded stiffly as John clapped him on the shoulder and exited.

The other three men lingered through a couple more glasses of scotch, and a cigar in Reginald's case, while discussing mundane things like upcoming symphony productions or potential business endeavors. Once his cigar had subsided into an impossible nub, the colonel too made his departure. "Ah, it appears I too must follow Sir John's example. Regrettably my sister expects me for a Sunday visit and I must catch the six o'clock train if I am to make it to Yorkshire in time enough to attend church with them. Thank Christine for the wonderful party on my behalf. I trust I will see you at the upcoming regatta, Erik? As for you, Mister Khan, don't think I've forgotten about my promise to give you a tour of the city; I will be in touch once my schedule permits. Good evening to you all." _Another one down; only two to go._

Fortunately Erik did not have long to wait; William left shortly afterwards, dragging a protesting Annabelle with him. That only left the Persian. Christine had curled up with a novel in the music room after the blonde left, wishing to give Erik and Nadir some privacy to catch up on years lost.

As he sipped his drink and stared at the man in front of him, he found himself at a loss over what to say. "Uh, I suppose I should offer my gratitude for keeping the _other_ elements of my time in your country to yourself." he finally muttered, desperate to break the silence.

"You know, I wonder if I should feel insulted by your lack of faith in the strength of our friendship. Need I remind you what I risked to set you free when the Shah wanted your head, Erik? I would not have done that for just any man and despite our _complicated_ relationship, I have always considered you an ally." Nadir stated with a flourish of his glass. " _Yes, sorry..._ You must understand the notion of companionship is still relatively novel to me."

"Nonsense! From what I've seen tonight, you're practically a paragon of sociability." Erik scowled, causing the other man to let out a booming laugh. "In all seriousness, Erik, I am gladdened by the life you've chosen to lead. You have become all that I hoped you could be: respected architect, revered composer, _family man_..." the Persian let his voice trail off. "I believe you've had too much to drink, daroga. In most places it's quite impossible to be a family man with no spouse or progeny. Furthermore, I remember your religion expressly prohibiting such undertakings."

"Oh? Then what do you call the vibrant beauty who acted hostess tonight? And yes you are correct, but since my homeland has renounced me and there are so few of my faith in this country, I do not think Allah would begrudge me enjoying such comforts every now and then, especially to celebrate such a charming reunion." his friend responded. "Christine. _We aren't yet_ —that is I haven't asked her to..." Erik began, but was interrupted by the sputtering sound of his guest choking on a mouthful of liquor. " _You mean to tell me you haven't proposed?_ But, surely you are aware of the scandal this will cause for her! What is preventing you from doing so? If you doubt the girl's feelings, I can attest that she is quite in love with you."

" _My God_ , you always _did_ have a penchant for dramatics! If you must know, I have every intention of taking her as my wife and the only thing keeping me from doing so is the absence of a ring. And before you formulate some asinine idea in that addled head of yours, I designed one myself using some of the gems I came into possession of during my time in court and it is currently being set. As for the scandal, I am well-aware of the impact it would have if we were ever found out, however what you do not know is that she was previously married..." _Damn, he shouldn't have said that!_ From the look on the Persian's face, he realized he would now have to provide more details than he was comfortable with.

So with a sigh, a heavy heart, and another glass of scotch, Erik launched into Christine's history. "Yes, she was once upon a time the Vicomtesse de Chagny... We first met in Paris. Actually, we've known each other for quite a long time, really, albeit from a distance." _T_ _hat is after I returned to the opera house that had once been my boyhood domain and fashioned myself a lair underneath it. By a 'long time' I mean that she came to live in the ballet dormitories at age seven when her father died and I pretended to be her Angel of Music. Oh, right and I also took up the persona as the Opera Ghost and extorted the management..._

"As you can imagine, I fell for her almost immediately but I was not her only suitor. No, a dashing young Vicomte from her childhood there was also. Both myself and _the boy_ both vied for her affections but ultimately and predictably my temper drove her away and into his arms." _I tutored her voice to perfection and got rid of the terrible lead prima donna so that she could make her debut. I lured her down to my lair_ _but ended up returning her. After which things sort of escalated and I ended up murdering two men, duelling her lover, forcing her to be in my opera alongside me, dragging her back down to my lair, and trying to force her to marry me. Oh! How could I have forgotten to mention that I tried to kill the Vicomte in front of her?_

"I fled France and relocated to London after my designs for the concert hall were accepted and I have been here ever since. Meanwhile, she went on to marry _that boy_ and remained in Paris." he said, trying to neatly summarize their time at the opera house without divulging too much. _Yes, even though she claimed then she was willing to choose me, in my infinite stupidity I shunned her. She spent the next two years with her handsome fop of a husband thinking I was dead. Meanwhile, I fled like the coward I am and tried in vain to distract myself from all thoughts of her._

"I see. But, that does not explain how you two then ended up together. Tell me you didn't steal her away from her husband, Erik."

Erik took a long swig of the amber liquid with a sneer, "Is _that_ what you think happened? Then allow me to disappoint you again, daroga! The two of them apparently came to London for a holiday and that foolish wretch went and landed himself at the wrong end of some thief's pistol. It was purely by chance that I happened upon Christine right as the villain was about to defile her, although at the time I was unaware of her identity." _Naturally count on that idiot boy to have left Christine to fend for herself against a gang of thugs. Good thing I didn't recognize her or I would have a body count in this country as well._

"She had suffered a nasty head wound during the ordeal and I brought her here to assess instead of just dropping her on the doorstep of some hospital. It wasn't until a few days later that I discovered exactly whom I had rescued and learnt of her idiot husband's fate. Oh, believe me, I tried to do the honorable thing and send her away but the cruel mistress of fate intervened again and her ship wrecked right off the coast." _First I encouraged her to forget him in my excitement to have her back, then I was stupid enough to have a friend in Scotland Yard look into the matter. He discovered that her husband was clinging to life in some hellhole and I brought her to see him before he died. I resolved to do the noble thing and send her back to France but we argued when she found out my plans; I kissed her and was so disgusted with myself that I pushed her away yet again. She almost died because of me._

" _I only_ —I only barely saved her, Nadir... She so nearly perished that day, first by drowning and then from the aftermath of being submerged in the frigid water for so long. It was one of the few times I can remember ever feeling fear and I knew then that I would never survive it if anything were to befall her. So, against all societal conventions, I let her return home with me. And now here I sit, recounting the entire bloody story to your sorry hide while you drink my scotch!"

Nadir sat back in stunned silence for another minute. He had long feared the day when his friend might find love and fall under its often ruthless spell, but to his relief destiny appeared to have blessed the man who had known nothing but scorn and hate. Though he got the sense Erik had omitted several parts of the narrative, he knew it was an inappropriate moment to pry. His masked companion hadn't ever been forthcoming with any aspect of his past but this woman ... _love_ seemed to have changed him for the better. And, in spite of their relationship having turned a corner, he understood it was time to depart if he didn't wish to unravel all the progress they had made. "Ah, while your hospitality has been immeasurable, my old friend, the hour is late and I feel I have outstayed my welcome."

"Yes, and it only took you half the decanter to reach that conclusion..." Erik said with a derisive snort. "It was enjoyable to see you again, Erik, and I had a lovely evening. I should like to see you and Christine again sometime in hereafter." the man continued, ignoring him. "As usual, you have seen to it that you focus on me, therefore ensuring I would be forced to endure your irritating presence further if I am to learn what brought you to England."

" _Damn!_ It appears my plans are foiled once more by your keen skills of deduction; but it is extremely flattering that you take such an interest in me." the Persian retorted with a roll of his eyes. "Then you obviously mistake simple curiosity for adulation. I am only eager to uncover this information so I can learn how to be rid of you once more." he said as they left the drawing room. "You know, I think you are growing soft in your dotage, my friend. You've not threatened my life once the whole night." Nadir quipped with a smirk when they reached the front door.

" _My_ dotage? I believe in your advanced age you are in need of spectacles, daroga, I am not the one with grey hair. And again, you have misinterpreted the situation... I've simply learnt that it is far more efficient to just dispatch an enemy rather than to waste breath on intimidation tactics. However, since I've given Christine my affiance that there would be no bloodshed tonight, you may count yourself safe for the time being." His words only earned him an irritating chuckle. "Posture all you want, Erik, but she's changed you for the better, even _you_ can't be too blind to see that."

"Were I you, I would not be so keen to tempt fate... especially when the hour is so close to midnight. I assured her there would be no bloodshed _this evening_ but once the clock strikes twelve, it's another day." he hissed, shoving the other man through the door.

It was indeed ten till midnight when Erik finally made his way into the music room to seek out Christine. She was perched on the edge of the couch thoroughly absorbed in _Macbeth_ of all things and he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. In fact, one of his favorite things about her was how easily she seemed to lose herself in a world of fiction, hanging on every word as if it were written just for her eyes and absentmindedly following along with her finger. It took no effort on his part to silently approach her without her taking notice and slowly he spoke:

 _Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood_  
 _Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather_  
 _The multitudinous seas incarnadine,_  
 _Making the green one red_

"I hope you are just quoting Shakespeare and not admitting to having murdered our guests." she said sternly, snapping the book shut and turning to look up at him. "Ah, if only I could have done so without fear of legal penalty or of breaking my oath to you..." He sighed dramatically, sliding down onto the couch next to her. "Nevertheless, I am overjoyed that whole miserable fiasco is finished."

"Oh, we both know you _don't_ mean that, Erik." she returned, rolling her eyes. First Reginald, then the idiotic daroga, and now Christine; perhaps he _was_ losing his edge... "And how could you possibly be sure of that?" he snapped. "Because regardless of what you claim, I can see you consider each of those men a dear friend." He grunted and crossed his arms in displeasure. " _You know_ , if you truly cared about me, you'd be providing words of comfort instead of heckling me..." Erik said in mock hurt. " _Of course!_ How could I have been so ludicrously selfish?! I am _so_ _sorry_ you had to suffer through such a tragic ordeal. Would you like a sweet for your bravery?" she crooned sarcastically. _Ugh, men._

"No. I'd much prefer _something else..._ " In an instant he had her pinned and was hovering over her, his eyes blazing. Although she was already positive of the answer, she couldn't stop herself from asking anyways, " _W-what?_ " Erik smiled wickedly, revelling in her innocent surprise, " _You..._ " he whispered before bringing his lips crashing down upon hers with an untamed urgency. His mouth danced over hers as his ravenous hands explored her body. With each kiss, each strategic brush of his tongue, she fell deeper under his spell. This was rapidly becoming torturous and she longed for the sweet release only he could give her. _But did he want the same?_

When he deepened the kiss and she felt evidence of his willingness against her thigh, Christine saw it as a chance to set her scheme into motion and grabbed the sides of his waistcoat to pull him closer. Emboldened by the apparent success of her current plan, she allowed her hands to slide down his front, deliberately skimming him through his trousers. She was flooded with satisfaction when he winced and let out a low groan. _This would be easier than she had previously thought._

Erik was simultaneously in both heaven and hell. What started as a harmless extension of the game he had been so wantonly playing was rapidly consuming him and now he wondered if he should just let it. _How had it reached a fever pitch so quickly?_ For the life of him he couldn't remember, his mind hazy with unchecked lust. And as her tongue flicked over his bottom lip, it all came flooding back to him. One second he had been in control, he had initiated a kiss. But then—then she yanked him nearer and ran her hand down _his_... While he plead for a way out he prayed that it wouldn't come. _God,_ with each of her sweet moans and soft kisses his tenuous hold on his self-restraint slackened; he was hanging off a precipice by his finger tips and coming closer to plummeting. Only then did he realize how hot it was in the room and he hastily removed his jacket, pausing to kiss down her throat as he did so.

Amidst those long seconds, Christine found her voice and he received his escape. " _T-then why don't you t-take—_ " Somehow her words afforded him the tiniest amount of strength to halt things. Erik rose to his feet before he had a chance to reconsider, swaying due to dizziness. It took a moment for him to catch his breath enough to formulate a reply. " _I..._ h-had the insufferable Persian not given me a headache..." His normally smooth, melodious tone came out clipped and strangled. She stared up at him in angry disbelief, noticing how he avoided her gaze. "You're terribly cruel." she spat without thinking, scrunching up her face in a pout. He chuckled, raking a hand through his tousled hair. " _Perhaps..._ but exhaustion is even crueller on your vocal chords and with the upcoming rehearsal, you do not need to be risking all you've worked for. Good-night, Christine." He practically ran from the room, not bothering to look back. _Why had he been so stupid to think he could play with fire and not get burnt?_

Christine was so incensed that she literally saw the world through a red lens. Although she had heard the expression numerous times, it never held much credence until now. Was it possible to want to do bodily harm to someone yet still desire to share in the throes of passion with them? _She had come so close only to be left unsated again!_ What had gone wrong? Her brilliant strategy had turned out so well initially until... _until she had been stupid enough to say something._ Well, certain things were only learnt through trial and error, right? Determinedly she combed through her clouded brain for a way to remedy her failings, then it occurred to her! He was far too clever for her thinly veiled enticement, she would have to approach things more delicately if they were to work. Yes, she would have to seduce Erik with careful subtlety and what better place to test this theory than Monday's rehearsal?

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 **Poor Erik was really NOT looking forward to the dinner party but it didn't turn out so badly, did it?  
**

 **Yay! More Erik/Nadir dialogue... It's nice that everybody has come together and they can all be friends.**

 **Uh-oh. See I told you it would end up backfiring on him! Now Christine is determined to make him pay and rightly so. I wonder how that will turn out.**


	25. The Morning Of

**iris2312: Yes, I know. He has it _so_ bad having to sit through a dinner party of his closest friends. Men, am I right? And, glad you liked the banter between the two! It was really fun to write and there will be a lot more where that came from in future chapters. **

**Wow, this one was an unexpectedly long one so it was split into two. At any rate, enjoy and please keep reviewing (it really means a lot). Of course I own nothing as well. :)**

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Christine flipped over for what seemed like the millionth time and let out a loud huff that was promptly swallowed by the stifling silence in her bedroom. _What time was it even?_ She cautiously opened one eye just enough to observe that everything remained swathed in the cloak of darkness and closed it again. _Still dark, still enough time for sleep._ Rotating once more and seeking comfort that would never come, she willed her eyes to remain shut and focused all of her effort on chasing an elusive slumber. However when her head began to throb with the intensity of her concentration she decided it was a hopeless endeavor. She attempted to sit up and reach the lantern on her nightstand but found she couldn't move her limbs; apparently in her copious tossing and turning, she had become thoroughly tangled in her bed linens. After a few cathartic curses in both Swedish and French, Christine set about extricating herself from her soft prison.

Erik lay awake on top of his coverlet with his arm tucked behind his head; he too was pursuing some sort of evasive restfulness. _How long had he been lying there staring at the ceiling?_ Normally he would have already risen, bathed, and dressed, though at present he couldn't bring himself to leave the bed. It was wholly unlike him to remain idle for any length of time but strangely he cared not. He remained like this for God knows how much longer until he heard the quiet patter of footsteps in the hall. Stealthily jumping to his feet, he grabbed the white mask by his bedside; and not bothering to throw on a dressing robe, he exited his room and followed the noise.

"Ow! _Damn!_ " Christine cried, setting the gas lantern down on the counter; she tried to balance on one leg while clutching at her freshly stubbed toe in hopes of squeezing the pain away. When she at last succeeded in disentangling herself from the linen fetters of her bed, she chose to make her way to the kitchen in the vain hope that a full stomach might induce drowsiness. _Wasn't this blessedly ironic?_ She had somehow managed to navigate the pitch black house and the treacherous stairs to the kitchen uninjured with naught but a dim light to guide her, but as soon as she reached her destination she walked right into something. "Careful, if Elsie hears you she very well might wash out your mouth for such language." With the surprise that she was no longer alone, Christine lost her balance and unceremoniously tumbled onto the stone floor.

"Arrgh!" she growled through her teeth, rubbing her throbbing left hip. There was laughing and she looked up to give this rude interloper a piece of her mind only to see a hand extended in her direction; begrudgingly she accepted it and was hauled to her feet. "Such dancer's grace..." came the wry comment paired with a chuckle. "Yes, well skulking around in the dark and scaring unsuspecting people can be just as rude as swearing." she hissed, bending down and fussing over her still aching toe. "Why don't you take a seat and allow me to examine that?"

In her cloud of pain and humiliation, she was growing angrier by the second. "I will be just fine, _thank you_." Christine spat through gritted teeth. Wishing the infuriating conversation to be concluded, she tried to hobble away while she still held some shreds of dignity but a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "That was _not_ a request. Here, _sit_." Any trace of amusement was gone from the voice, replaced by a gentle yet resolute command. So, with a sigh she let herself be directed into a wooden chair. "I apologize if I startled you. I was just curious what prompted you to rise so early."

"I couldn't sleep and came downstairs to get a snack." she answered, opening her eyes to see Erik kneeling before her; his expression was contrite but the light blue of his eyes danced with amusement. "Ah, I see. May I?" He gestured to her stocking and she nodded, finding it peculiar that he felt the need to ask permission now when he had touched her so wantonly two nights before. Slowly and far too deliberately he removed the fabric, causing her to flinch and exhale sharply, when he inspected her damaged digit. All too soon he pulled away, "My hands are cold, I'm sorry. But, it's not broken and the joints are still in the proper place; I would say it's just a rather nasty jam. I can bind it, if you'd like." he said pragmatically, shifting into a crouching position.

"N-no, that's okay. I-I didn't jump becau— _that is_ , your hands aren't cold..." she stuttered suddenly, not wanting him to think he had caused her to recoil. " _Oh?_ Then what...?" He looked at her with mild interest but she froze in place unable to answer. How could she possibly explain that it _was_ his fault she balked, but it wasn't out of disgust? _No, her reaction was motivated by something else entirely, something that defied quantification and transcended description._ "Are you still hungry?" Oddly, she found his simple query refreshing because it provided a reprieve from her musings. Christine nodded shyly. "Very well. Let us get you some ice and elevate your foot, then I will prepare you something and help you back to bed." There was a quick quirk of his lips and she gasped as he stood. Only now did she notice that he was shirtless. "Sorry, I-I..." _Why was she apologizing?_ _Ugh, why did everything that came out of her mouth sound so idiotic?_

Erik's eyes narrowed playfully as he cocked his head to the side, "No, it is _I_ who should ask forgiveness for offending a lady's sensibilities with my state of undress." He remained in place briefly with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her eyes roving up and down his torso, before wordlessly heading towards the ice box. Once her leg was resting on a footstool and with her toe wrapped in an icy cloth, he set to work preparing her something to eat. Christine took the chance to appraise his half-naked form shamelessly, shivering at the way his lean muscles seemed to ripple even when he performed a task as simple as cooking. _He truly was beautiful._ Even the grotesque map of scars crossing his back could not detract from the perfect divinity of his physique; instead they only seemed to enhance his singularity. Any man could have a pleasing body but few to none could carry such terrible wounds without exuding weakness.

He could physically feel her gaze sweeping over him, fixating on his every movement no matter how minute. Throughout his lifetime, or at least after his _stint_ in the gypsy camp, he had been loathe to allow anybody to see him in anything less than his shirtsleeves; the looks of horror or pity always inspired an unnatural rage within him. Since he could remember, he had abhorred being an object of sympathy. But, there was not an iota of malice or even contrition in her unabashed scrutiny, only awe and ... dare he say it, _attraction_? Somehow the fact that he was without his pajama top eluded him until Christine, herself, had noticed. At first he was unsure how he should feel; ashamed that he had insulted her modesty or angered at the way she studied him like an insect under a glass? Then he saw the inkling of something ravenous etched in the contours of her flawless face and couldn't help the surge of smug pride that coursed through him. All thoughts of covering himself or fetching his robe fell by the wayside as he brazenly flaunted himself in front of her. It was incredibly uncharacteristic for him but that did not bother him in the least. He may not be able to further his little game through touch without constraint but at least he didn't have to totally discard his efforts of damn Persian and irritating colonel had been right, Christine was changing him, making him more human. A year ago he would never have believed it possible to be at ease and to feel like any other man, but even he could not remain in denial forever.

The clatter of a plate being placed on the desk beside her and the words, " _Bon Appétit_ , my dear." made her jump slightly. Christine shuddered, sensing his close proximity. A delectable aroma broke the spell she had been under and she averted her stare timidly. "A poached egg, toast points, and a cup of tea. It isn't much but it should hold you over. Again, I apologize but I am unwilling to risk Elsie's wrath over your missing breakfast, _even for one so lovely as you, Christine._ " At this they both dissolved into casual laughter, the warm, deep tones of his complementing the high, tinkling notes of hers. Moments like this felt so good, _so right_ , for each of them.

A sharp sound, halfway between a gasp and a squeak permeated the still jovial air around them as Christine took a bite of the egg. "What's the matter, did you burn yourself?" he asked in horror, hating himself for being the cause of her pain regardless of how indirect. She blushed with embarrassment at his tension, "No! Sorry, no, _I didn't mean for you to think—_ it's just that it's _very_ good." she said sheepishly, looking back down at her plate. "I had no idea you could cook, wherever did you learn?" Out of her periphery, she saw a relieved smile tinged with haughtiness cross his face. "It's a skill that I seldom have a chance to utilize these days but originally it was a sine qua non borne out of necessity. You forget that I was a bachelor long before meeting you. But, alas, even ghosts apparently require sustenance and there was no abundance of cooks lurking in the cellars below the opera house."

" _Who_ would have known?" she quipped between mouthfuls of egg and toast. In her mind's eye she could hear the disapproving tutting of Madame Giry over her grossly unladylike behavior but she was too hungry and the food was too delicious to care. Once Christine had devoured every morsel and wiped the yolk up with her toast, Erik removed her plate and cup and washed it, desperate for anything to help take his mind off the rapidly approaching day. "I'm sure it's not expected of the master of the house to wash his own dishes." she said when he returned to her side. "On the contrary, something tells me Elsie would find perverse delight in the thought of me up to my elbows in dish water." He chuckled, "Now, let's get you back to bed. You've had a snack and warm drink and I will accept no further excuses. You must rest as much as possible, especially with that foot. You _do_ remember we've that blasted rehearsal today?"

Reality crashed down upon her like a ton of bricks. _Rehearsal. Today. Holy Father._ Of course! Today _was_ Monday, wasn't it? All of her inexplicable jitters and fractious slumber were now made clear. " _Christine?_ " The golden sabre of his voice was sharp enough to cut through her reverie. "Is all well?" He asked, taking in her wide, glassy stare and ashen face with concern. "I-I just forgot ... _forgot_ what day it was, is all." she replied, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth; whether from abashment at her admission or the looming reality of the situation, she did not know.

"Hmm... then perhaps a calendar hung in your bedroom is in order? We shouldn't waste more time getting you back abed; especially not when you are too delirious to recall what day it is." he teased, "Come, I'll carry you. It's better if you remain off that foot until absolutely necessary; _I insist._ " His last two words were spoken with unerring directive. Any potential protests died on her lips as Erik scooped her up and started up the stairs. Momentary resentment surfaced at the effortless way he carried her and moved unhindered through blackness. But _Lord_ the soft feel of his taut muscles and blazing warmth of bare skin was nearly too tantalizing to bear.

Then, just like that and all too soon, her excruciatingly thrilling personal hell came to an end. "There you are. Please rest and no more intrepid forays. Dorothy and Elsie will arrive soon and I will instruct them to see to your needs. Our presence at the theatre is not required until two o'clock, so there's no urgency. Have you any requests for me to fulfill in the interim?" Erik said as he placed her onto the bed and reordered the covers. "Goodness, it's not as though my leg is broken! I am perfectly capable of caring for myself." Christine huffed, not fond of being coddled but at the same time enjoying being the center of his attention. Plus, any physical contact with him was a bonus in of itself, _even if_ it wasn't motivated by passion. "That very well may be true, however you will be grateful once you spend the entirety of the afternoon crammed into an uncomfortable costume and on your afflicted foot." he countered, raising his brow at her hostility. _Ugh, she hated that he had a valid point!_

When she did not make any demands, he made to leave but was halted by a hand on his forearm. "No, please don't go. There _is_ something I would like you to do for me. Do you think you could you uh—read to me?" He smiled, "Of course. Is there any novel in particular you would care for, my dear?" She pondered the question and he could just picture her flipping through a mental list of various books; he would have been content to remain there watching the way she wrinkled her nose, looked upwards, or tapped her chin in thought the rest of the day. "Actually," she said in a small voice, "I would rather you tell me a story like you used to when I was a girl. Something with a happy ending."

Naturally he could deny her nothing and picked his brain for an anecdote to meet her criteria. He had never been one for fairy-tales or happy endings, having been denied the pleasure of nursery tales and basic kindness as a child and throughout his adult life. Most of the stories he knew were dark and despiriting but he had learnt of a few lighter ones to comfort Christine with when she first came to the Opera Populaire. It was strangely refreshing that she had retained a vestige of childhood's infinite awe and optimism, well after in the wake of her first sorrow; the _boy's_ sobriquet of Little Lotte had been accurate, he thought bitterly. Erik took a small while to settle on one but felt the selection was oddly fitting and taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he began:

 _A long, long time ago there lived in a little hut in the midst of a bare, brown, lonely moor an old woman and a young girl. The old woman was withered, sour-tempered, and dumb. The young girl was as sweet and as fresh as an opening rosebud, and her voice was as musical as the whisper of a stream in the woods in the hot days of summer. The little hut, made of branches woven closely together, was shaped like a beehive. In the centre of the hut a fire burned night and day from year's end to year's end, though it was never touched or tended by human hand. In the cold days and nights of winter it gave out light and heat that made the hut cosy and warm, but in the summer nights and days it gave out light only. With their heads to the wall of the hut and their feet towards the fire were two sleeping-couches––one of plain woodwork, in which slept the old woman; the other was Finola's. It was of bog-oak, polished as a looking-glass, and on it were carved flowers and birds of all kinds, that gleamed and shone in the light of the fire. This couch was fit for a princess, and a princess Finola was, though she did not know it herself._

 _Outside the hut the bare, brown, lonely moor stretched for miles on every side, but towards the east it was bounded by a range of mountains that looked to Finola blue in the daytime, but which put on a hundred changing colours as the sun went down. Nowhere was a house to be seen, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor sign of any living thing. From morning till night, nor hum of bee, nor song of bird, nor voice of man, nor any sound fell on Finola's ear. When the storm was in the air the great waves thundered on the shore beyond the mountains, and the wind shouted in the glens; but when it sped across the moor it lost its voice, and passed as silently as the dead. At first the silence frightened Finola, but she got used to it after a time, and often broke it by talking to herself and singing._

 _The only other person beside the old woman Finola ever saw was a dumb dwarf who, mounted on a broken-down horse, came once a month to the hut, bringing with him a sack of corn for the old woman and Finola. Although he couldn't speak to her, Finola was always glad to see the dwarf and his old horse, and she used to give them cake made with her own white hands. As for the dwarf he would have died for the little princess, he was so much in love with her, and often and often his heart was heavy and sad as he thought of her pining away in the lonely moor._

As he got into the story, he wondered if the irony of his choice was observed. Indeed Christine did see the parallels and smiled inwardly but did not wish to speak aloud and interrupt the silken voice with which he wove his fable.

 _The dwarf urged the horse. He plunged into the lake, and went down and down until his feet struck the bottom. Then he began to ascend, and as he came near the surface of the water the dwarf thought he saw a glimmering light, and when he rose above the water he saw the bright sun shining and the green hills before him, and he shouted with joy at finding his sight restored._

 _But he saw more. Instead of the old horse he had ridden into the lake he was bestride a noble steed, and as the steed swam to the bank the dwarf felt a change coming over himself, and an unknown vigour in his limbs._

 _When the steed touched the shore he galloped up the hillside, and on the top of the hill was a silver shield, bright as the sun, resting against a spear standing upright in the ground._

 _The dwarf jumped off, and, running towards the shield, he saw himself as in a looking-glass._

 _He was no longer a dwarf, but a gallant knight. At that moment his memory came back to him, and he knew he was Conal, one of the Knights of the Red Branch, and he remembered now that the spell of dumbness and deformity had been cast upon him by the Witch of the Palace of the Quicken Trees._

And so he continued, spinning a delicate web of fiction, capturing each character with the perfect tone and inflection, until the narrative reached its end.

 _Slinging his shield upon his left arm, he plucked the spear from the ground and leaped on to his horse. With a light heart he swam back over the lake, and nowhere could he see the black Cormorants of the Western Seas, but three white swans floating abreast followed him to the bank. When he reached the bank he galloped down to the sea, and crossed to the shore._

 _Then he flung the reins upon his horse's neck, and swifter than the wind the gallant horse swept on and on, and it was not long until he was bounding over the enchanted moor. Wherever his hoofs struck the ground, grass and flowers sprang up, and great trees with leafy branches rose on every side._

 _At last the knight reached the little hut. Three times he struck the shield with the haft and three times with the blade of his spear. At the last blow the hut disappeared, and standing before him was the little princess._

 _The knight took her in his arms and kissed her; then he lifted her on to the horse, and, leaping up before her, he turned towards the north, to the palace of the Red Branch Knights, and as they rode on beneath the leafy trees from every tree the birds sang out, for the spell of silence over the lonely moor was broken for ever._

"I liked that one. It was a magnificent choice, Erik, thank you. I feel bad for the poor dwarf, though. He endured so much for the princess all without knowing if his love would be returned." she yawned, closing her eyes. _I would have, would still, suffer blindness or even the loss of my music to see you smile._ "I am glad you found it agreeable. And, yes, love has a queer way of blinding a person and possessing the soul." He bent down and kissed her forehead; she was already asleep. "It appears even monsters are not immune to its potency, although the tale does lend the rest of us hope..." he muttered, stealing one last look at her before exiting the room.

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 **Oh my god, a shirtless Erik nursing Christine's hurt toe AND cooking for her? Yes, please!**

 **Aww, he even tells her a story? By the way, the folktale Erik tells her is an Irish one: "Princess Finola and the Dwarf." The whole thing is sort of long but pretty good overall. Plus, I thought it was sort of applicable. I was _going_ to make him read an excerpt from this one book but then I realized that chapter doesn't come until later so it would just create a LOT of confusion.**

 **Please review, next part of the chapter soon to follow!**


	26. Rehearsal

**Alright, here is the second part to the chapter with the actual rehearsal in it. Not much more to say on that front except: I hope you like it!**

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Just as Erik had promised, Mrs. Foley brought up a tray at thirty minutes after eleven and Dorothy followed soon after to help her bathe and dress. The little maid chose a pretty, yet practical, day dress without overly-complex fastenings. Much too soon for her taste, she was in the carriage on the way to rehearsal. Christine did not mind the usual silence of the trip, for once, and she saw he was as preoccupied as her; not that it was out of the ordinary for him. And she meditated over what he was currently thinking and if his contemplation matched her own. Was he as anxious as her? Was he recalling rehearsals at the opera? Was he worried about the reception they would receive from the rest of the cast? Was he hesitant about being in front of a large crowd?

There wasn't much chance to further muse as they lurched to a stop. In no time they were standing outside the Opera Comique and Christine was taken aback by just how ordinary it looked in comparison with the Populaire and if juxtaposed with Erik's concert hall, it looked positively primitive. They were met by a short, portly man that she surmised was Lord Tweeddale's nephew and their manager. "Ah, Monsieur Leroux and Madame de Chagny! My uncle recommended you both very highly and while I trust him, I would like to hear the two of you sing before I officially put pen to paper. Surely you understand, Monsieur Leroux, being a music man yourself?" Erik nodded curtly, letting out a derisive snort when the man walked ahead. " _A musical man?_ The porcine oaf probably believes arpeggio to be a type of pasta dish and a chalumeau the wine with which to wash it down." he muttered in her ear. " _Erik, manners!_ " she scolded, though it was difficult to sound stern amidst a flurry of giggles; he only shrugged and offered a smirk.

"Oh, Monsieur Leroux, how are you faring? I heard you suffered an injury that prevented you from attending previous rehearsals." The man's eyes fell on the mangled right side of Erik's face that was so skilfully hidden under his new realistic mask as he spoke. She felt him tense next to her and placed a soothing hand onto his shoulder. After what seemed like an eternity, he relaxed somewhat. "Yes, my _shoulder_ has healed almost completely." he said stiffly. "Good news, good news! May I ask what you did to damage it?"

"I hardly think that is any business of yours, _Monsieur._ " Erik growled. He had fielded a lifetime of personal questions from "curious" people and had no more patience for them; this man was just the sort of prying idiot that he had grown to abhor. However, upon seeing the reprimand present in Christine's gaze and the hint of fear on the manager's piggy features, he relented. No matter how much he dreaded this, he was not going to ruin it for her. "Forgive my brusqueness, Monsieur Porter, it's seldom that I find myself in the limelight; I am much more comfortable composing." His apology seemed to satisfy because the manager nodded in understanding and led them onto the stage where the rest of the cast was busy setting up for the first act.

"Monsieur, Madame, please let me introduce our conductor, Signor Calvino. Signor, these are our new leads; Monsieur Leroux is an established composer, I am sure you two will get on famously. They've already looked over the music so please provide them their uh—scripts and resume what you're doing. You two needn't worry about costumes today, we will fit you both tomorrow. I'll stay for the first song to make sure everything is in order." With that he scurried off the stage and into one of the front-row seats.

Next they were met with brief introductions to the other cast members and Christine was astounded by how out of place she felt being back on stage. From the crammed wardrobe of her emotions, she didn't know whether to cloak herself in giddiness, trepidation, disquietude, or rapture. She sensed Erik was having a similar experience but noted bitterly that he was much better at hiding his emotions. It did not help matters that the conductor was staring at them disdainfully and muttering to one of the violinists in Italian.

If his total inquietude wasn't enough to send him over the edge, the pompous ass of a maestro _was._ While Christine remained blissfully ignorant of everything the lout was saying, Erik did not and his fingers twinged, longing to wrap themselves around the sod's neck with every additional word. _If_ he could even locate it under all the excess fat that hung off his face...

"That blundering English halfwit knows nothing of music or the art of opera. First he turns away two respected artists and then he has the gall to replace them with some man who claims to be a composer and his lover. Look at the little chit standing up there shaking like a leaf; he would probably tell her she was the Holy Mother herself just to get under that skirt. I cannot fault him for that, she is a rare beauty, but it isn't something I will stand for in _my_ opera house. The Englishman hasn't even heard them sing, no doubt they made a handsome contribution to even step foot on his stage. The fools were above attending rehearsals too." Erik was about to jump into the pit when someone announced that everything was ready. The conductor switched to English, "Signor, Signorina. It is an honor to meet you. I know it is quite unusual to show up a week after rehearsals have started but Signor Porter tells me you already know the music, so I _do not think_ any harm will be done. Please take five minutes to warm up. Daisy will show you to a dressing room. We will begin when you return." His flagrant disregard for the language was present in the way he carelessly mangled every word; his pronunciation was so atrocious that it made Piangi sound like a proper English lord.

Obediently the pair of them followed the indicated maid and came back to find a furious Calvino screaming in Italian at a young violinist; the bulging veins in his round, reddened face bore a striking resemblance to a pulsating, overripe tomato. Christine might have laughed at him had she not noticed the boy was nearly in tears. " _Allegretto_ , stupid boy! How can you not grasp the difference between that and _m_ _oderato?_ Your incompetence is confusing the entire orchestra! This is the fifth time I've had to tell you and still you cannot absorb what I am saying! You're fired! GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY ORCHESTRA!"

" _No!_ P-p-please, maestro! I just am not familiar with this music. I will learn it within the week, I swear! _Please_ , you cannot fire me! I am the only thing my mother and sisters have!" he cried frantically, falling to his knees in supplication. "Well then maybe they should find jobs of their own instead of relying on a such a worthless discredit to music." the conductor sneered.

Everybody froze and watched the ugly scene in front of them unfolding, even though precious few of them could understand what was being said. Still, the stage was awash with shocked mumbles. "What's happening? That pig cannot fire Francesco! The poor lad's father died not a week ago and he gets no time to mourn, instead he's out looking for work the next day to support his mother and sisters." Christine, ever the tender-heart, was incredibly moved by the disgusting display and threw a pleading gaze at Erik.

Although it went against his nature to get involved in the pathetic squabbles of other men when he saw the look on her face, saw the words: _do something_ etched into the chocolate brown of her irises, he resolved to intercede. Plus, he utterly loathed the conductor and hoped confronting the man would somewhat alleviate the urge to kill him. With almost inhuman grace, he leapt down into the pit and landed effortlessly on his feet. This action earned him a round of startled gasps from the musicians, though the maestro did not notice him until Erik was in front of the stand. "GET OUT! HOW DARE YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY PIT?!" he roared in his native tongue, waddling down to where the intruder stood as fast as his fat legs would carry him. Unfortunately he grossly underestimated the height difference and only came to Erik's chest. His temper seemed to desert him when he beheld the other man towering over him confidently like a God, the power practically radiating out of his every pore.

"I simply came to resolve the situation at hand. You say the boy cannot distinguish between the different tempos? Maybe I can be of assistance and explain where you have _so obviously_ failed. In fact, I'd endeavor to say it is a wonder that any of your orchestra members are playing at the same tempo given the slovenly way in which you gesture; I could hardly distinguish your 2/4 from your 3/4 time indications." he said in perfect Italian with an arrogant flourish.

Calvino was ready to explode until it dawned on him that _something_ wasn't right. "Y-you speak Italian, Signor? I had n-no idea." the conductor stammered, forgetting the grave insult from seconds previous. Erik crossed his arms and offered a casual quirk of his brow, "Perhaps if you had asked, Signor, you would have learnt that Italian is but one of many languages in which I am fluent." He replied, turning back to Francesco and allowing the implication of his words to sink in. _They did._ All the color drained out of the conductor's face in the form of large beads of sweat, lending him the appearance of a large, slimy grub. "This is a fine instrument, boy." Erik said to the young violinist. "Th-thank you, Signor. It was my father's... it's all he left me."

"May I?" he asked, reaching for the violin. Francesco nodded. "This is ridiculous! Just because he paid to get his role and thinks himself a composer, doesn't mean he has any skill with the violin. I suppose he means to prove he is some reincarnation of Paganini but he is as much of a mountebank as the rest of those fools with staff paper and a fountain pen. He walks in a week after rehearsals begin, questions the maestro's decisions, and wastes our time? I say he should be dismissed alongside the imbecile of a boy!" Someone from the orchestra interrupted; it was none other than the violinist from earlier who seemed to be Calvino's lackey. Christine scowled and looked at Erik, who seemed to be... _amused_? "You truly think so, Signor?" he drawled.

The eyes of every soul in the theatre, including the seamstresses and fly crew, came to rest on the two men in the pit and a sea of unintelligible whispers reverberated throughout the room. However, when Erik took the instrument and began to play all other noise ceased immediately. Despite the piece lasting less than five minutes, the silence lingered until Erik broke it. "I hope that satisfies any doubt you might have held, _maestro_." he stated bluntly, returning the violin to its rightful owner. There were awed murmurs of, "Locatelli's, 'Il laberinto armonico'. Ottoboni cannot even play that piece without missing notes." At the mention of his name the previously outspoken violinist shrunk down in his seat. Erik ignored this and moved to address the stunned conductor, whose fat mouth hung open wide enough to swallow an entire cake. "You _will_ allow this boy to remain a member of the orchestra and I will personally see to it that he is ready for the show's premiere. Now, shall we commence with this rehearsal and dispense with the idiocy or would you gentlemen prefer to further underestimate my skill?" The maestro simply nodded and muttered what she assumed to be curses under his breath, all the while shooting fearful glances at Erik.

Rehearsal went by incredibly smoothly and had concluded just in time for dinner. Admittedly this was way too prompt for Christine, who had been so distracted by the day's drama that she had totally forgotten to implement her plan of seduction. However, when the manager bounced up to the two of them at the entrance and all but sold his soul to gain their signatures, she found she couldn't stay disappointed. Besides, with three weeks remaining there would be plenty of time for her to put into motion her temptress' schemes...

"Well, after such a day, I believe drinks are in order." Christine declared as soon as they walked through the door of Erik's house following a delightful hotel dinner. "Ever the demure and proper lady... Would you care for a cigar to accompany your scotch this evening, Madame?" he chided. "Stop your mockery and pour us both a little wine." she ordered, plopping onto the couch of the music room. Erik left and returned with two glasses of wine. "As my lady commands." He gave a cheeky bow and handed her a glass before sitting down next to her.

There was a pleasant lull in the conversation while both of them nursed their drinks but Christine was the first to speak, "I've found myself pleasantly surprised by rehearsal; I thought it would be frightful. I believe your new mask served its purpose, more than a few of the dancers were gawking at you. Oh, and Erik... I wanted to thank you for what you did today. For _everything_ you've done." She gave him a look of sincere gratitude. He snorted into his glass. "I believe you were imagining things concerning your fellow female cast members. If you are referring to the incident with that boy, Francesco, no thanks are in order; I was only too eager to set that corpulent bastard right... But, regarding the mask, I believe I _do_ owe you an explanation as promised."

" _Still,_ it was very kind of you to intervene on his behalf and I will offer no complaints on hearing you shame that slug and the awful violinist with your playing. Are you really going to tutor Francesco and help him learn the music?" She took another sip; already her hands and feet were beginning to tingle. "Why would I make a false promise? I fully intend to bring him under my tutelage if only to spite that elephantine fool. Truthfully, the boy does have potential and is quite understandably struggling in his new role as provider with his father so newly buried." Christine smiled. Just when she didn't think it possible to love him more, he surprised her. While she still was disgusted by a world who readily rejected him, she was immensely glad that she was the only one to ever hold the fancy of such an amazing specimen.

He, on the other-hand, was too wrapped up in his next course of explanation that he did not notice the way she was staring at him. "When I agreed to Lord Tweeddale's request that night, I did so for your sake. I saw the excitement etched onto your face over the prospect of returning to the stage, I saw how your eyes lit up with longing, and I knew I could not deny you this triumph. Please do not assume that it was a noble sacrifice on my behalf because in that moment I also realized that I would be betraying myself, my music, everything _we_ worked for if I refused. I trained your voice to perfection, not because it suited me or even as a hobby, but for a purpose. You _belong_ on stage, Christine. I cannot say the same for myself and you are painfully aware of what my face has denied me. Truthfully, I expected him to entice you to perform once he first heard you sing but I never believed he would want me as well. I was unfortunately mistaken and since I had already consented, I was loathe to break my word. This presented me with a very obvious problem as appearing onstage in my regular mask would prove potentially incriminating and out of Alberto's character. So I spent several sleepless nights after the business with the Viscount Hinton pouring over publications in many languages in hopes of finding something, _anything_ , to aid me. Nearly all of these efforts were to no avail until mercifully I stumbled onto a newspaper clipping detailing Charles Goodyear's process of vulcanizing rubber. I will not bore you with the mechanics of the method unless you wish to know, but suffice it to say I hastily ordered the needed supplies and began my experimentation in the bowels of the concert hall. It took many attempts and some modifications of my own, but ultimately I was able to forge a new mask. With the addition of some paint and a few other details to improve the realism, I created what you see before you now."

"Well, I am duly impressed by the final outcome. It's a work of art but I still retain the hope that one day you will grow comfortable enough to not wear anything in my presence. _Any_ mask, I mean!" she blushed furiously at her gaffe, praying he hadn't picked it up. To her horror, he smirked and moved closer. "Quite a bold request... I wonder if you truly understand the ramifications of such a demand, my dear." He tipped her chin up with his index finger while stroking her cheek with this thumb before leaning in slowly. _Why was he such a glutton for punishment?_ He knew how this was sure to end, yet he kept on.

"Speaking of that _business_ with Lord Hinton, how _is_ your shoulder?" she hastily interrupted. For her to have any hope in this game of theirs, she needed to play on her terms or she was sure to lose herself. Erik paused as if she had just asked what lay at the center of the universe. "It's completely healed, although I daresay it will add another scar to the collection." he finally replied. "I should like to see it; I've never actually seen it, you know."

Now it was his turn to put a damper on things, "If you are asking me to undress again, it will have to wait until tomorrow. After such a trying day, we both need to retire early. Besides, we have yet _another_ rehearsal tomorrow. Just leave your glass on the table, I'll escort you to your room." Once they had reached her bedroom, Erik gave her a chaste kiss good-night and walked to his own room. That night he went to bed with the secret hope that her words hadn't been a mishap and that there was a chance that she wanted the same ending to their story as he did.

* * *

 **Well, that rehearsal was certainly interesting! What do you think of their new manager and that ass of a conductor? Kudos to Erik for putting both him and that dickish violinist into their proper places and saving Francesco from ruin!**

 **And, darn. Christine's plan totally slipped her mind. I guess we will have to wait until next time to see what she will do.**

 **He finally explained the mask. Aww. :)**

 **Again, please review! I love reading/replying to your feedback.**


	27. The Plot Thickens

**Just a note before we start: I hope everyone liked the lovely "ups" of the story so far. There have been some hiccups, scary moments, and raw emotions but all has thus far "turned out in the end," so to speak. But, as Newton realized: what goes up, must come down... and there are dark times ahead. I thought I would provide a word of warning because this chapter marks a change in the story and you may all hate me when it's all said and done. Don't worry, there IS some light left before the shit hits the fan.**

 **Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy and I don't own anything.  
**

* * *

It was a thick, grey July day whose noxious yellow fog choked out everything except the stifling heat, a pervasive swelter which seemed to permeate everything. A weary figure sat inside a townhome trying to appear convincingly unaffected as if its veritable armor of fine wrappings would repel the calefaction. They were a jewel in a somber sea of drabness, an irascible monument to vanity; the aforementioned room looked every bit a mausoleum instead of a parlor. _There was no sun!_ _God, how was it possible for it to be this damn hot when you couldn't even see the bloody sun?_ The person shifted uncomfortably in their plush velvet throne. _He was late. Again!_

Finally the sound of the bell and sweaty pleasantries with the staff. _Get on with it!_ There were heavy footsteps in the foyer, footsteps which drew closer by the second. _Not fast enough!_ At last a gentle knock and the creak of the door. "Good God what bloody took so long?!" Despite the early hour the room was swathed in darkness, the heavy curtains were drawn and there were no lights; it was too torrid for even the negligible warm breath of a candle. Still, it was evident the guest was prostrating themselves and begging forgiveness for his tardiness. The seated party rolled their eyes in annoyance. But then again, it wasn't exactly surprising; men would do anything to secure their payment. _This fat slob had wasted enough time._ "Speak your piece and dispense with the groveling!"

"V-very well. I've located _him._ " His voice was _strange_ , as listless as the air outside. "This is the news you've disturbed me with, that which we already know? If that is all you have to share then you may _leave._ " The man shivered visibly from the iciness in his audience's tone. "No! I've seen him, watched him; I know where he lives. I meant to add that I've also initiated contact and learnt some valuable information. Apparently he is meant to be in a production at the Opera Comique, the lead so they tell me; the opening night is at the end of this month. In addition, my sources have enlightened me that he has some large-scale concert program planned to celebrate the end of The Season next month; I've even found out his box num—"

By now the person had reached the utmost limit of human patience and anger burst forth from their chest like a wild beast. The pudgy guest actually flinched as if the words had whipped him. " _Contacted_ him?! _Warned him_ is more fitting, I would say! You absolute fool! Haven't I made it abundantly clear just whom we are dealing with? _Have I not made it clear_ that he can outwit any man with ease? I told you I would be the one to initiate _contact_. He will see right through whatever pathetic ruse you think you've engineered and flee long before I could ever get close enough to m—"

"I-I made no mention of you and used a false name. I sent it under false pretenses and demanded a face-to-face meeting! Something vague... a-a note concerning the inheritance of a recently-deceased distant relation. It might be enough to pique even _his_ curiosity and really, all we need to do is isolate him long enough to—" he stuttered, desperately trying to regain some bit of favor from his disenchanted overseer.

This appeared to at the very least placate the venerable wrath of his employer. There was a noise, more haughty huff than sigh, "Well, perhaps not all is lost then. This knowledge you've gained is moderately useful. Although you are still an undeniable imbecile to have sent anything our goals might not have been completely compromised, he cannot flee when he has two serious commitments. It shall afford us time to hone our plan."

The voice paused for a moment, steeped in thought, "Actually, this could prove a promising turn of events... _maybe he will even seek us out himself._ I have no doubt he will endeavor to find out as much information on you as possible. Let's just hope, for your sake, that your pseudonym was well chosen. I would hate to be disappointed at such a late stage in the game, especially when you have served me so well thus far. You may go. _Rest._ You've earned it." The words were honey sweet, sickeningly so, and the man almost preferred the ire he had been shown seconds previous. "Th-thank you. Even as clever as he is, he will be unable to find out anything. I am an expert at covering my tracks; not even with the aid of every detective in Scotland Yard will anything be linked back to us. I assure you of this."

"Good. In just a few weeks time... _this thing_ which I have waited an eternity for will be done." The person sighed, statuesque posture relaxing an iota; their gesture met with a slight, nervous smile from their companion. "Yes, my dear man, in just a few weeks time Erik Leroux's life will be forever changed." A defiant sliver of sunlight shone through the gap between the curtains and illuminated the seated figure's face to punctuate the announcement. Another shudder rippled through the fat man at the sight, in those haunting eyes he saw an animal determination he hadn't ever witnessed before, like a lion closing in on the kill. As he walked down the front steps of the rented home, he was deep in thought. _The pawns were in motion now, there were no second thoughts and nothing, not mountain, nor sea, nor Hell-fire, could prevent his employer from getting to this Erik Leroux._

[-]

Their second and third rehearsals proved pleasant, _well except for the dress fittings._ Christine had forgotten how much she disliked having to stand immobile as she was measured and fussed over by a seamstress. As a ballerina, the costumes were often light as to allow movement and not overly complex; she found she preferred this alternative greatly to the stiff corsets and cumbersome fabrics of a prima donna. But, even as she got a harsh reprimand and felt sharp stick of a pin for fidgeting, she knew this temporary aggravation would be well worth it to star alongside Erik in the opera.

Further adding to her consternation was that the costume fittings bled into rehearsals and the hectic schedule again delayed her seduction plan from being implemented. After a great deal of thought over the matter, she concluded that rehearsal was the only assured place to safely do this. In front of the staff and other cast members she knew he would be at _her_ mercy, while attempting such alone with him was doomed to failure. Somehow he always managed to gain the upper-hand and halt any intimacies before they occurred and with his obstinacy it was doubtful that even appearing naked before him would work. Plus, she was much too shy to even think of trying such a bold thing. But there was hope on the horizon; Christine had observed that his control was slackening. A slow assault on his resolve over time in the form of seemingly innocent brushes and caresses seemed to be the best method and one he was unlikely to identify as a trap.

Both mornings Erik had disappeared early and it occurred to her just how much she missed his absence at breakfast. However, she bitterly reminded herself that he was a major figure in society and had much more important things on his agenda than hovering around solely to entertain her. At least he returned for luncheon on the second day; on the third, Mrs. Foley had relayed that Erik would send a carriage for her and meet her at the opera house.

Deflated, Christine had tried to engross herself in another novel to distract herself from the cheerlessness of a second day of fittings that would not be offset by the promise of seeing him beforehand. Right before she was preparing to depart, the bell rang and she ran to answer it like an overeager child, discarding notions of propriety in the hopes that _he_ was there to escort her after all. It was just a package, some ratty old memento box for Erik. Her eyes roamed over it lazily but her interest was piqued when she saw who sent it. Unfortunately, the time came for her to leave before she had a chance to investigate the box. "It's time to go, dear. What've you got there?" came the voice of Mrs. Foley. Christine looked from the box to the maid awkwardly, "It's a package for Monsieur Leroux. I—it was just delivered; it's from his friend, Monsieur Khan." she recounted, handing the maid the object and lamenting that she didn't have an opportunity to inspect it. "Very good, I'll see he gets it."

"Wait! Could you—could you place it in the music room? I believe we will take tea in there after we return from the opera house." she turned and asked as she was half out the door. Rehearsal went by in a flash, which wasn't too terrible considering she barely had a chance to see him with all her trips to the costume department; at least she could have the carriage ride and the rest of the evening in his company.

After one of Mrs. Foley's sublime dinners, they found themselves headed for the music room. It was rapidly becoming somewhat of a routine to retire there after dinner. Sometimes they would just drink and talk, others Erik would play for her while she sang, and some nights they would read. They were moments that she cherished and she found herself hoping that things would remain this blissful in the future. In her dreams she fantasized that this peacefulness was extended to every evening as his wife. Every evening her husband would come home, they'd eat a delicious meal, then spend the rest of the night in the music room he had designed for her. Then every evening they would retire to his bed where he would lay her down and...

"What is this?" he asked, surveying the box that rested on the table quizzically. It was the one that she had instructed Mrs. Foley to put there just that afternoon. But, until then it had completely slipped her mind and she wished she had remembered to mention it at dinner. "Oh, just some things Monsieur Khan sent over earlier. It arrived right before I left for the theatre but I forgot all about it. There was a note with it that said he had found a few items of yours from your time together that he's been meaning to return. I didn't dare open the box—"

"For fear of what it might contain?" he interrupted with a quick raise of his brow. "No worries, my love, I doubt any of the contents are _too_ deadly... Although, you should be always on your guard for scorpions and serpents—" If only she knew the hidden truth in his jest. No, she would never learn of his time in that dreadful country, at least not the darker aspects; he would make sure of that! Now it was her turn to interject, " _Scorpions and serpents_? How biblical. If you're trying to frighten me, Erik..." She cuffed him on the arm with a playful giggle and roll of her eyes.

"Oh, but you _should be_ afeared..." He approached and backed her against the wall. Christine swore the room grew darker as he rose to his full height. "A favorite weapon of the Persian court. Why pay an assassin and risk the potentially changeable allegiance of man? Nature cannot be bought or swayed. Her only currency, _only understood language_ , is survival. She is the great equalizer and her chosen playing field is _death_. Many a vigorous warrior has been felled by a poison with an even more potent vigor. And there is such an abundance at your disposal, who could even guess from which species it originated? Perhaps if you close your eyes you can hear the sizzling rasps of the Jafaree snake, catch a fleeting glance of horns resting above the cold, reptilian eyes of a horned viper, or glimpse a flash of the dark zigzag adorning the back of a rock viper before all your lifeblood drains from your every orifice and your putrefied skin sloughs off... _Maybe_ a merciful Lord will bless you with a look at the ventral bands of the Caspian cobra or the desert black snake cloaked in scales darker than the desert night itself before you slowly succumb to paralysis and suffocate under the weight of your own lungs... You _could_ gaze upon the white bands along the body of the Siberian pitviper and have just enough time to ponder how such a little thing could fell a full-grown man... But death also comes in more diminutive forms such as that of the Naqab desert scorpion; perchance you can admire its striking yellow hue before you drown in your own fluids; or take in the robustness of the fat-tailed scorpion as your breathing comes to a halt... You should be _very_ terrified, for within nature exists many nightmares and the Shah's court provides them an expansive realm in which to fester and bloom."

In that moment Christine indeed felt fear's keen sting, not over his macabre fabrications or even his apparent familiarity with such horrors. No, it resulted because _in that moment_ Erik was gone; _h_ _er Erik_ was no more, instead possessed, inhabited by something much darker, _much more wicked_ , than the Devil himself. Something consumed him; some remorseless, inhuman blackness took hold and his soul seemed to twist and writhe before evaporating into nothingness before her very eyes. And yet it wasn't this _presence_ that truly instilled dread the likes of which one could scarcely imagine... it was the look in his eyes. That look. _The look of_ doom incarnate; of a demon come to life.

It was forever seared into her mind; she'd remember until she drew her last breath. _His eyes!_ The normal blue warped into an indescribable whirlpool of emotions; she saw terror, regret, agony, hatred, shame, and others she could not begin to name, save one. Amidst it all was a pitiable hope that only floundered and drowned in that raging blue sea. _Erik. Erik. ERIK._ " _ERIK!_ " she screamed his name repeatedly in her own version of an exorcism; willing him to come back to did. _Thank the Holy Father, he did._

" _Chris—_ christine?" Erik blinked slowly as if awaking from a deep slumber; only he hadn't been asleep _._ Here he stood in the music room, fully-clothed in broad daylight. _What had just happened?_ One minute he was talking, joking with her and the next ... _the next_ found him precariously close to the edge. The edge bordering despair, futility, fear, and a nameless, ebullient caliginosity where all light was snuffed. For once in his life he recoiled from the edge. He shivered. W _hy was he so cold?_ _Why did he remember nothing outside of that peculiar dream? That dream which found him back in Persia with the night closing in around him; the wail of lost souls pierced his ears while their limbs grasped at him, seeking vengeance against their murderer._ One look at her pallid face, delicate features mired in panic and worry and he knew he was responsible. _Oh God,_ _had he hurt her?!_

"Forgive me... I did not mean to cause alarm. Where—where were we?" Relaxation washed over her whole person at his words and she decided it was better to make no mention of what had just transpired. "You were just about to open the Pandora's box Monsieur Khan was kind enough to send." She flashed him a shaky grin; _a grin he surely didn't deserve._ They returned to the box that rested on the table by the couch. "Yes, of course." he replied, cautiously removing the lid. To both their infinite relief, no evils of the world flew out and nothing slithered or skittered forth. In fact the contents were kind of well, _boring,_ and Christine broke out into a hearty laugh upon gazing at the various rolled papers, books, and trinkets inside. "What _is_ all of this?" she inquired, watching him run his hands over each item fondly.

"Old books, designs, draughts, and inventions of mine. The Daroga must have smuggled them out after I ... _after I left._ See for yourself, my dear. I've already checked for arachnids and reptiles." Excited by the prospect that these old, dusty papers and tomes housed his imaginings she eagerly dipped her hand in like a child with a jar of sweets and pulled back with a tattered old book. Although it was in a sad state, it held a sort of reverent beauty. "Ah, Herodotus' _Histories._ He gifted it to me during my time in the Persian court; open it and see." She did as she was bidden, tracing the lines of a beautiful, flowing script in some unrecognizable language. "What language is that? What does it say?"

"'Wherever you are, death will find you out, even if you are in towers built up strong and high.' It's Arabic." He laughed darkly to himself, _if only she were privy to the double meaning behind those prettily scrawled words._ "Arabic? I didn't know you could read Arabic." she repeated, painfully aware of just how little _she did_ know about him. She had caught glimpses, phrases, snippets of his past before he met her; some pleasant and some, like minutes ago, not so much. He had spent time in Persia, travelled the world, performed with gypsies. It almost seemed like some glamorous work of fiction recounted neatly in her head but Christine was no idiot, she knew his life had been the furthest thing from happy. If what she had just witnessed was any indication, his past was a veritable abyss of darkness. Rather than flee from it as so many others would have, she longed to tame it and vowed to be the lone flame guiding him from this torment.

"I can speak it as well, regretfully it does not sound as beautiful as it looks scrawled upon a page." Asking him personal questions had always been somewhat of a risk, but driven by her new resolve she decided this would be a fine opportunity to discover more. "Just how many languages can you speak, Erik? I've only ever heard you speak Swedish, English, and French. I know you also speak Persian and Arabic." She hoped her gamble would pay off and reward her with another glimpse into his fascinating and brilliant mind.

Erik ran a hand through his hair in thought, "Truly? I've never actually tallied an exact number in my head but in addition to the five you've mentioned: German, Italian, Portuguese, Greek, Spanish, Romani, Sanskrit, Punjabi, Russian, and Mandarin. I can read Latin as well." He shrugged as if commenting on the weather. " _How?_ " she breathed, practically buzzing with giddiness. It was easy enough becoming bilingual if you were taught at an early age, such as she was in Swedish and French. But she was still struggling to learn English and could scarcely imagine mastering a fourth or a fifth, let alone as many as he had. "Most came about as a necessity of my vast travels, but French is my native tongue and I learnt Italian, Latin, and Greek in my youth from my studies."

They spent the next hour looking through the other papers and books from Persia. Or rather she watched in awe as he explained the integral parts of each architectural blueprint, walked her through each sketch of the native fauna, and extrapolated on the purpose behind each invention draught. Midway through, she had stood up and to stretch her legs and ended up behind him, playing with his hair. Initially her touch seemed to unnerve him but gradually he yielded to the bliss of her fingers.

The two of them had shared a good laugh when he unrolled several drawings of various snakes and scorpions. There was another book within the box but it was in Persian. "It is a collection of fables." he said simply, briefly recalling who he had originally purchased it for. He was both surprised and touched that Nadir had returned it to him and ran his finger poignantly over the inscription inside the front cover. "What does that inscription say?" Christine asked, peering over his shoulder at the words partially obscured by his finger.

Erik sighed sadly, "That is a story for another time, my dear..." As he said it, he doubted he would ever be able to discuss Reza with her. He still blamed himself for being unable to do more outside ending the child's suffering despite his friend forgiving him all those years ago. Silently he prayed for a distraction to shift the focus away from his uncomfortable feelings and was granted one when Christine let out a sizeable yawn.

"Did you find your fittings to be too tedious?" he teased wryly, observing her haggard expression. He was already privy to her dislike, having been repeatedly informed back at the Opera Populaire when she would rant to her Angel. "I hope the new dresses proved suitible. I instructed Dorothy to find you something that was easy to remove." She gasped in mock vexation and swatted his arm. "Monsieur! How dare you be so bold in your insinuations! You've greatly offended my sensibilities."

"Is that so?" he growled. In a flash, he had leapt to his feet and had backed her against a wall once more; this time it was not out of terror. "Yes and I demand you apologize for your brazenness!" Erik let out a rich chuckle, "Well, then far be it from me to not comply to the wishes of a lady..." Christine looked into his eyes, transfixed by the passion within them; shuddering when she felt his finger stroke her cheek. "So you'll apologize, sir?" she probed as he moved closer. " _Of course._ " His words were punctuated by a tender and methodical kiss, his tongue skimming her bottom lip. " _I apologize for my crass remark and..._ " She exhaled sharply at the sudden pleasure of his lips working their way down her jawline and neck. " _I apologize for not being the one to divest you of it._ " he finished, recapturing her mouth and pressing himself to her more aggressively.

Christine didn't realize his skillful fingers had been undoing the closures on her bodice as he spoke, but when she did she cared precious little. From the urgent fury with which he kissed and touched her, it seemed that he had dispensed with his previous notions of restraint. _Finally!_ This was what she had longed for since that long-ago night of the concert...

So lost were the two of them in one other that the subsequent knock at the door was an unthinkably unwelcome interruption. "What in the bloody hell is it?" he spat savagely. "Pardon, sir. I know you told me not to disturb you but a telegram marked urgent just arrived for you." came Mrs. Foley's voice, slightly muffled through the barricade of wood but still undeterred by his temper. With a heavy sigh and string of curses uttered in a foreign tongue he walked to the door and opened it just enough, knowing that only a select few would ever send such a thing. _And they had better have good reason!_

He seized the message impatiently and as he read, Christine saw him pale visibly but otherwise he kept his expression stoic. Luckily she had managed to restore her bodice to its original state in case the door was opened further. _What on earth could this be about?_ "Ah, I see. I must go. Elsie, have my carriage brought immediately." The maid nodded and left the room with haste and he followed. "Erik, what happened? What's wrong?" That sweet, dulcet tone yanked an invisible set of reins and halted his progress. "It's nothing to concern yourself over. It appears I had forgotten my meeting this afternoon with the Daroga and he requires my presence immediately." he stated before exiting. Though his tone was meant to placate, there was a fine edge to his words that would have been indiscernible to the ears of someone who didn't know him. Christine _knew_ him; _she knew him body and soul_ and did not believe the excuse he had given. There was _something_ else, _something_ he was withholding _. What was it?_ But despite knowing Erik, she also knew better than to pry. Frustrated, she walked over to the small table that held a basket of fruit and a biscuit jar; snacks the maid had placed there after observing the unnatural amount of time Christine had been spending in the room. She reached into the jar and took a savage bite out of a biscuit, cursing the baked good heartily. Yes, she knew better than to meddle, _but she didn't have to like it!_

"It is doubtful I will be home tonight, please see to it that Madame de Chagny does not wait for me. And, should anybody other than myself come to the door, do not answer. That last part is of grave importance. You are not to answer the door until I instruct you otherwise, even for the post." He paused and waited for the housekeeper's nod of affirmation before leaving the house. "To the Royal Albert Hall or club, sir?" the driver asked as he held the door to the carriage open. "No. I wish to go to this address here." Erik handed the man a piece of paper from inside his waistcoat.

The ride was not overly long but still allowed for far too much time to think for his liking and the unavoidable questions it breathed life into; the foremost being, _who?_ And, _what did it all mean?_ "We've arrived, sir." Erik thanked his driver and hurriedly made his way to the modest flat, all the while scanning the shadows for any sign he was being followed. _He couldn't afford to take any more chances._ As he rang the bell he hoped his suspicions were unfounded.

* * *

 **Uh-oh... What did you make of the confusing first part of the chapter? Who is this mysterious person and what are they planning for Erik?**

 **What did you think of the box of mementos?**

 **What do you think caused Erik to leave in such a hurry and where did he go?**

 **A/N: I am REALLY sorry for the pause between updates. I had a week where I went to the beach and I didn't really have much time to write, despite having WiFi. Anyways, I also got struck by the idea for my next PoTO fic and have a good chunk of writing done. I know I should have been working on this, but I just had to record my ideas before they evaporated. Anyways, it will be a modern version but with slightly different origins for Erik. It's sort of unconventional but I think I've planned things out well enough to still capture the essence of the characters. Also there will be a lot of antique cars, yachting, angst, exotic locations, AND an interesting side-plot with Meg! I really feel like I am in my element with it and hope everybody will enjoy it once this story has concluded and it is posted.**

 **Okay my plug is over, please rate and review! :D**


	28. Mysteries

**PhantomFan01 - Good theory, but Raoul is without a doubt dead. Christine saw him pass with her very own eyes and then his body was loaded onto that steam ship that sank. Although, it would be quite a twist if it were him! Unfortunately, dying from blood poisoning and then being lost at sea is sort of hard to come back from. Thanks for the reviews and keep guessing!**

 **iris2312 - Hahaha, be careful what you wish for! Soon enough you will learn _their_ identity (using gender-neutral pronouns here) and things devolve pretty rapidly after that. But, bonus there's a lot of dark Erik coming up. I am glad you are enjoying the story so far and I hope my warning is ample enough for the near-future!**

 **Bah, the next few chapters are going to be a pain to write because I already have several crucial ones that I just want to publish! Although, maybe I shouldn't be too eager since the aforementioned chapters aren't going to be a picnic; they will be quite the opposite.  
**

 **I'm sure you are all thinking the worst but at least there will be plenty of those lovely Erik/Daroga exchanges from here on out; then we have the upcoming opera and some exciting theories on the identity of that mystery person!  
**

* * *

Erik rapped on the door, this time more intently. He checked his pocket watch again: _twenty minutes after eleven_. His keen ears picked up the muffled footsteps coming from inside the flat. How long did it take to answer a damn door? Granted it _was_ late but that did little to quash his irritation. Not for the first time he was incensed that other men _apparently_ needed sleep and kept regular hours for such frivolities. He scowled. Sleep was a weakness, an opportunity for enemies to rob you blind and slit your throat.

Finally the door opened and he looked down at the olive-skinned man who stood there wearing a look of stark-terror. "Darius." he greeted with a curt nod. Darius stared back at him for a moment as if debating with himself over whether he was in the presence of a ghost. "C-come in. I-I'll g-go fetch my master right away." he stuttered in Persian, practically running from the spot. Erik stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, removing his gloves. Nadir's manservant had always been afeared in his presence and in the past had endeavored to do anything to avoid him. He shook his head, _some things never changed._

"Ah, Erik. You always did have a flagrant disregard for my slumber. What brings you to my home in the middle of the night?" Nadir asked grumpily, walking into the room with a pale Darius trailing behind. He had been prepared for the reply laced with arrogant sarcasm that was so quintessentially Erik, but as he really looked his friend over he noticed this midnight call concerned something somber. It was clear that _s_ _omething_ grave had unnerved him and he wondered what had happened. _Had he ever seen the Angel of Doom jittery before?_ Was it something to do with Christine? He hoped not.

"Believe me, Daroga, I would much rather be in the company of my beloved instead of stealing away to your flat like a thief in the night as I currently am. Unfortunately _this_ arrived and marred the makings of a delightful evening." he said bitterly, pulling a piece of paper from his jacket and silently cursing it.

The Persian took the paper wordlessly and quickly scanned it. "It says you've inherited a modest sum from a recently deceased relative. Is this really such monumental news?" he inquired with consternation. Erik snatched it back, "If you think it is not, you're a bigger fool than I previously imagined. I am sure even a simpleton like you gleaned from our time spent together that I've never known a warm or welcoming family. Surely you _can_ agree that the entire premise is odd."

Nadir sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, the masked man _did_ have a point. He so often did. "Yes, now that you make mention it _is_ odd. I suppose we should sit down and discuss this. I'll tell Darius to put the kettle on."

Moments later the servant had returned with a tray containing two steaming cups of tea and sat it down on the table in front of them, bowing out before closing the door. "Do you still take your tea in the Russian style or has living in London opened your palate to cream?" the Daroga asked, fixing his own cup. "My preference has not altered, however I will take it in either fashion."

"Personally, I've grown very fond of cream during my time in this country." He watched his guest gently squeeze a slice of lemon before adding it to his own cup. "That raises another curious point. Why _are_ you here in London, Daroga?" Nadir raised one ebony brow and took a small sip of the scalding liquid. "I do not believe that takes precedence over your original reason for bothering me in the dead of night." He took a slightly larger sip, made a face and added another cube of sugar. "Indeed it does not." came the answer.

"So please explain to me, other than the suddenness of it, why has an ordinary telegram brought you into my parlor close to midnight? Inheriting from an estranged, distant relation is uncommon but not unheard of." Erik tried to curb his agitation. Hadn't he addressed this already? Why was it so hard to understand that a man with no family would not likely have any relations to inherit from? He wanted to beat the Persian over the head until it sunk in; but he begrudgingly realized that he was a guest and allies were usually less-inclined to help after being assaulted. The moron wasn't completely to blame, after all he knew nothing of Erik's past. His expression soured at the realization that he would have to reveal aspects of his life before Persia in order to properly explain.

"Yes, I am aware that this phenomenon is not a great rarity. However, given my family _situation_ it is incredibly improbable as I have no living relatives for which I can account. My paternal grandparents died before my parents met and my mother's parents died while she was on honeymoon; my father died before I was born and neither of my parents had siblings. I do not have knowledge of any relatives outside of my mother."

"You do not know if your grandparents had any siblings?" He shook his head. "No. As you can imagine, my mother did not particularly enjoy spending time in my company let alone conversing with me. She was content pretending I was a hell-spawn sent to punish her for her sins and that no blood was shared between us. I found out this information through a friend of hers who was reasonably fond of me. I could very well have living great-aunts or uncles and distant cousins, but the question has nothing to do with _if_ and everything to do with _how_ these so-called relations managed to locate me. Until I moved to this city, I had no surname. You see, my _dearest_ mother denied her hideous devil's child even the benefit of a name. I suppose the only reason I was given an appellation at all was so that she did not have to address me as 'boy'. However, once I arrived in London I needed such to continue on my project and establish myself. I debated over styling myself with a fictitious moniker but then I recalled something I observed on one of the papers in my father's study; it was a letter addressed to him and from what I could decipher, my father was a one, Charles Leroux."

A silence descended over the room in the wake of Erik's admission and Nadir felt incredibly sympathetic towards the man he had come to call his friend. In Persia he had seen parents cast their children into the streets to live with the dogs, he had seen children whipped for stealing a bit of food, but somehow all of these horrors seemed less cruel than those inflicted by Erik's own mother.

Being beaten left physical scars but actions and words could be far more wounding than the lash of a switch. To deny your child your name simply because he emerged from the womb deformed was truly wicked. Briefly he wondered if Erik would have been better off if his mother had left him in the streets. At least he would be ignorant of how horrid his own flesh and blood was. The Persian took another swig of his tea and pushed down these feelings of indignation. He knew what was needed right now was a level head and not pity or outrage. "I see your point. Do you have any theories or ideas of who might be reaching out to you?"

"I thought it was already made abundantly clear that I am just as in the dark as yourself. As I said previously, my mother was the only living relation that I was aware of and no others were mentioned. She lived a reclusive life after I was born and never hesitated to remind me that I was solely to blame for this. If there _was_ any other family, I sincerely doubt she informed them of my existence." Erik replied coolly. "Well, have you considered how you will approach this? Will you go to the meeting place on the date provided?"

Nadir sighed when he beheld the devilish glint in his friend's eyes. Allah help him, he _did_ _not_ have a good feeling about this... "In the past, I would have seen to the matter myself but alas my current _position_ prevents me from taking such liberties. _That_ , my good Daroga, is where you become of use."

"I will not kill torture or kill this man to extract information, Erik! Much like yourself, I have endeavored to put my past behind me and repent for all the atrocities I have committed in this life." he protested, gleaning the implication behind the phrase ' _seeing to something_ '. Erik rolled his eyes. "If you are quite finished with the melodrama, I shall like to continue. Unless, perhaps you would rather I get you a role in a Shakespeare production, which should not be difficult with my connections... I do not need you to torture or dispatch anybody and were I ever desperate enough to seek your help in such a capacity, I would ask that you kill me as well because I would have to be utterly mad. What I _do_ require is for you to investigate this mysterious telegram and see what you can unearth about its sender and his connections."

"And pray, why can you not do this? Surely it would be unwise to trust such a sensitive task to a _fool._ " the Persian grumbled, mildly offended by the return of Erik's biting sarcasm. If he was expecting an apology, he was mistaken; all he received was a quirked brow. "Indeed it would be, however at present I am uncertain whether or not I am under surveillance. It is well-known that William, Reginald, and John are connected to me, however you and I have not been publicly linked. Aside from that fact, much as it pains me to admit, you always were a decent sleuth. I trust that you have made contacts in the city?"

"Yes, of course. While I am flattered you hold my talents in such high regard, I do not know how you anticipate I will begin to go about this. I may have contacts but I think you are forgetting that we are no longer in Persia and I do not have many resources at my disposal." The man across from him scoffed, "I simply commented on how your skill-set would benefit the situation, that's far from praise. I am not deluded enough to believe this will be an easy task, but I do know of someone who can assist you and provide some of these resources. There is a member of Scotland Yard whose aid you might find useful: Assistant Commissioner Ronald Cartwright. If you seek him out and mention me, I've no doubt he will help to the best of his abilities. And of course, I will provide the necessary financing for your undertaking."

Nadir rubbed his forehead, sensing the stirrings of a headache. He had never particularly liked his former profession, but it was an honorable position that allowed him and his family to live comfortably. But he hadn't been the Daroga of Mazandaran for over ten years and presently wanted nothing more than to enjoy his retirement in more civilized surroundings. _Merciful Allah, I am getting too old for this!_

Meeting Erik all those years ago had changed everything and now it appeared his friend was about to throw another wrench in the humble life he had made for himself. ' _Damn you, Erik._ ' he thought not for the first time. Mentally he debated over his decision to reunite with the man in the first place. _Oh well, the damage was done now_. "Fine. I will do this for you, but in the meantime promise me you will not do anything rash. Now, I should get some rest or I will be of no use to man nor beast."

"Of course. Good-night, Daroga. I can show myself out. Oh, and I received your package." There was a short pause as Erik stood and donned his jacket once more. "I had forgotten about all I left behind _when..._ " His eyes darkened with an almost-wistful reminiscence and his expression indicated he was in the midst of a mental debate. "I uh, _appreciate_ your returning them." he said finally, turning on his heel and exiting.

Now the night had taken an even _more_ bizarre twist! He could count the number of times Erik had thanked him on one hand and even though he hadn't used that word specifically, the sentiment was clearly the same. It was touching, a reaffirmation of their mutual respect and odd friendship, and he knew that he would provide help in any way he could. The Persian watched his friend depart with a sad shake of his head. "Damn you, Erik, master of persuasion and leading cause of my migraines." he muttered under his breath.

Christine was both baffled and incensed by Erik's sudden departure the night before, although she knew the news had to be grave indeed to inspire such a reaction. She was gladdened by his appearance at breakfast and the conversation had been pleasant enough but still she could see that he was intensely preoccupied. Despite her eagerness for information she knew better than to press him and was unwilling to risk his anger over her prodding. Not when the two of them had found such contentment in the time since he showed her the music room.

"Is there something wrong?" Dorothy asked as she helped Christine dress for the day. "I'm fine, Dorothy. I am just confused, that's all. Master Erik received a very strange telegram in the middle of the night and rushed off somewhere. Today he seems lost in thought. I just hope everything is all right." she replied, thankful that her dress buttoned in the back and the maid could not see the tears that filled her eyes. "Oh, yes. Mrs. Foley told me about that but she doesn't think it's something to worry over. I'm sure the Master will share everything when the time comes. Maybe he just doesn't have all the facts and is waiting." The girl gasped as Christine pulled her into a tight hug. "Sometimes you are truly wise beyond your years, Dorothy. Thank you for your advice." she said shyly, realizing the awkwardness of the situation. Both girls exchanged smiles, "You're ready for another day of rehearsal. We don't want to keep the Master waiting; you should go down now."

If she was thinking anything would change and Erik would bombard her with a sweeping admission during the carriage ride, she was to be sorely disappointed. Just as they had done at breakfast, the two of them conversed about superficial things. However, her mood improved when she remembered that today's rehearsal would be uninterrupted by irksome dress fittings and tedious introductions. That meant she would at last have her chance at implementing her heavily delayed seduction plan. Perhaps, she could even get him to tell her all about the strange telegram and where he went off to so hurriedly. _Yes_ , seduction seemed to be the perfect solution since he didn't appear to be in any great hurry to divulge any news and she knew his stubbornness could wear down a mule.

So that's just what she did, or _tried_ to do and miserably failed at; she kept it simple with small brushes, coy looks, and fleeting touches but her efforts were wasted. Though he performed his role perfectly, it was obvious his mind lay elsewhere and she resolved to go against her better judgment and just _ask_ him what had happened. After all, these interruptions and setbacks were starting to wear thin. And if he didn't tell her then... _Well_ , Christine didn't know what she'd do but she wouldn't have any kind words, that was for certain!

No sooner had she formulated this new scheme than Calvino called for their intermission break. She decided it was best to wait until they were home to broach the topic but in the meantime she resolved to take her coquettish techniques to the next level during the second half. Not that she could approach him during their recess if she wanted; Monsieur Porter had been waiting in the wings to whisk Erik away the second he walked off. Christine sighed and went to chat with some of her fellow female cast members to pass the time, hoping that the weeks of remaining rehearsals would not be this drab.

As Erik made his way back to the stage, he cursed himself for forgetting how tedious productions were and for ever agreeing to take part in the whole blasted charade. It didn't help his mood when the damn manager approached him at every waking opportunity to ask advice. _Really, the bloated fool had no business running a_ _theatre..._ He already had enough on his mind with his _business_ with Cartier, the deal John was settling, future concert productions, and that suspicious telegram. So far the only respite he had from his tiresome affairs was _her_. Even when they were on-stage amidst the flurry of scurrying people and directors barking orders, she invaded his every sense. Each bit of contact, each exchange of glances set his body on edge and flooded his mind with scandalous thoughts. It was a divine miracle that he was even able to keep time or remember his part. Was he imagining it or had she gone out of her way to touch him? Either way, he was marginally glad—for the sake of his sanity—that he had been summoned by Porter.

He was almost to his destination when he overheard voices, _men's_ voices. Erik continued on, uninterested, until one of them spoke; from the thick Italian accent it was clear that it was Calvino's pet, Ottoboni. Deftly, he melted into the shadows and listened. It was too easy. _Apparently old habits die hard..._ he thought with a smirk. "What do you think of the new leads? Me? I'm surprised. If you'd asked me to bet all my wages on whether or not the two of them could sing better than a cat in heat, I'd be in the poor house."

"I felt the same way. I had the cotton at the ready just in case but wouldn't you believe that they both sound ... _supernatural._ But it's him that takes ahold of you."

"Yeah, _his_ voice does strange things to me too. Sometimes I feel like I'm under a spell. It's eerie, really."

"Aye, he's one scary bastard too." Erik rolled his eyes.

"You two sound like tittering chorus girls! His voice is the work of the Devil and say nothing of his skill with the violin... Those talents are—"

"Oh, piss off, Ottoboni! Yer just bitter over that first day when he made a fool of you and that fat jackass. I heard he played a piece you couldn't even master if you _did_ make a deal with Old Hob."

"Ignorant fool! I suppose you haven't heard the rumors then..." Now, _this_ piqued his curiosity! He had always been somewhat vain finding entertainment in the various exaggerations concocted concerning him. In fact, the wild tales were half of the fun of his former 'career' as the notorious Opera Ghost; the other half being vexing the managers.

"What rumors? Yer full of horse shit, Ottoboni."

"My neighbor's girl works at _his_ concert hall as a maid. She told me he used to wear a mask to hide half his face but then two weeks ago he disappeared and the smell of death came from the basements. None of the staff were brave enough to go down there but he reappeared a week later in time for the concert and his face was as you see it now. No mask. The rumor says that he sold his soul to the Devil to master music and his face was cursed. So he used his talent to lure innocents into the basement so that he could make a new mask from their skin." Erik actually had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. _This may have been the best one yet!_ He briefly wondered if he should write little Giry to tell her that her role as chief storyteller was in jeopardy. None of the ballet rats or chorus girls had ever matched _this_ level of macabre.

"No wonder that slab of lard is your only mate, you're both a couple of loons. I'd love to hear your story about _her._ "

"Yeah! Tell us, is she nymph or goddess enslaved by his witchcraft?" A hearty bout of laughter sounded from Ottoboni's companions and the man in the darkness focused intently on the reply to come.

"Only fools mock what they don't understand! The girl has potential, yes. Her voice is good but her acting is _così così_. She's too much of an innocent to play Violetta, if you ask me. She needs more practice in the art of love, one or two good fucks should do it. I'd be happy to give her some lessons if only to spite that mons—" The violinist never got a chance to finish his sentence, in a flash he was roughly slammed against the nearest wall; the other men let out shouts of surprise at the sudden attack.

"I would think _very_ carefully about your next words, Signor. They could well be your last..." Erik hissed, hoisting the Italian to eye-level by the lapels. Ottoboni whimpered pitifully, "P-p-please, m-mercy! I-I meant no offense! We were all joking! Right?" he stammered, looking to the two for support. Both backed away shaking their heads to deny any involvement. Like hell they would face the composer's wrath for the slimy violinist's sake!

By now a crowd had started to gather, thanks in part to the man's tearful pleas. The display sickened Erik thoroughly and he regretted not having his Punjab lasso on hand. That was the best thing about it. Men could not beg and simper like babes when the life was being choked out of them. "P-please l-let me go, Signor! I m-meant n-nothing by it!"

" _Silence!_ The only thing more despicable than a coward is a liar and you are both. You _will_ apologize to the lady posthaste or I will ensure you deeply lament it." Erik snarled, pinning him to the wall more forcefully. " _Y-yes! Y-yes! Okay!_ "

"What's going on here, gentlemen? Is everything all right? Erik? Vincenzo?" boomed the voice of the manager. _Damn the fat slob and his interference!_ "Signor Ottoboni and I simply had a disagreement over propriety concerning the fairer sex. However, he has agreed to apologize for his unwarranted lasciviousness so that we may resolve the matter and resume rehearsals." The violinist frantically nodded and was released, falling to the floor in an undignified heap. "Oh, _well..._ Good, good! So long as you two have settled it... We start again in three minutes!" Porter said, surveying the scene in bewilderment and stomping away.

Christine heard all the commotion and excited murmuring of her fellow employees and went to see what had happened, but did not arrive until whatever it was had ended. Suddenly she was assaulted by a blubbering Ottoboni, who fell to his knees before her in supplication. "P-please f-forgive my crude tongue, Signorina. I-I d-did not mean to insult your virtue! I offer my humblest apologies!" he cried, clasping his hands in front of him. She was wholly confused by the pathetic sight in front of her. The last time she had seen this man was that first day in the orchestra pit, why was he groveling at her feet pale with terror? She looked around the room for an explanation within the sea of giggling chorus girls and guffawing stage hands, then her eyes came to rest on a tall, dark figure wearing a satisfied smirk, his arms crossed over his chest. _Erik._

"You know that was a wicked thing you did to that man." Christine chastised on the ride home. " _Wicked?_ " Erik raised a dark brow at her, "Hardly. You did not hear the bile spewing from his foul mouth. Suffice it to say, he was incredibly fortunate that Monsieur Porter happened upon us." She rolled her eyes, placing a hand on his knee. "What did he say to offend you so?"

"Please do not ask me to repeat it. I am far too much of a gentleman to utter such profanity in regards to you." he replied moodily. She smiled to herself, sometimes he reminded her of an overgrown child with his sulking. "I will take your word on it, however I _still_ think you were a bit too cruel. From the way he was shaking, I'm shocked his hair didn't turn completely white." Just then, the carriage came to a stop announcing they were back at Erik's townhouse. He shrugged, "He's fortunate enough I didn't snap his neck. I should have intimidated him further, I must confess I was rather hoping he would soil himself..."

" _Erik!_ " she cried in exasperation as he opened the door. "You are truly diabolical." He flashed her a fiendish grin and bowed before offering her his hand, " _Perhaps..._ Welcome home, my lady." Once he had helped her out he placed a kiss on her hand and dropping his voice so only she could hear, whispered, "Shall we see just what kind of _diabolical_ things we two can get into this evening?"

* * *

 **Uh-oh, looks like Erik received that telegram that was mentioned last chapter during that mysterious exchange. I wonder what Nadir will find out!  
**

 **Looks like rehearsal is more than they bargained for but at least Christine's scheming is paying off, even if she doesn't yet realize it.**

 **Ooh, I knew that Ottoboni guy was a sleaze! I think he got let off too easily. What do you think?**

 **Mm, I wonder what they will get into... too bad the chapter ends there. ;)**

 **Rate & Review! I love to hear what you think.**


	29. More Fairy-Tales

**Aww, no reviews for the previous chapter? Was it really that bad? You guys are killing me here! And to think I am giving you FOUR chapters within the next two days, tsk tsk. Maybe I will just have to wait to post the other three until I get a certain number of reviews, hmm?**

 **This one is a long one and is very fluffy, but sweet I think. Although, 80% of it is dedicated to a story Erik tells her. I promise it's not just pasted in there to take up space, I actually had to read several versions of the tale and then retell it in my own words. The summary was too vague and read more like a report than an actual narrative and the story itself was too long and riddled with lots of dialogue. So, I came up with a middle-ground and I hope it meets with everybody's approval.**

 **As usual, I don't own anything.**

* * *

The next morning Christine awoke late to find Dorothy already in her room. Last night she and Erik had stayed up until nearly two in the morning, though she was mostly to blame with her insistence that he read to her. While they did not get a chance to get into anything ' _diabolical_ ' as he had put it, she had still thoroughly enjoyed hearing the enthralling tales from Persia. "Sorry, my lady. I didn't mean to wake you. I was sorting through your dresses, Master Erik said you'd need a fitting one for tomorrow's regatta."

"Regatta?" she repeated sleepily. "A regatta is a series of boat races, in this case it is a rowing event on the Thames. We will be watching from outside the Red Lion hotel at the finishing point." answered a distinctly male voice. She automatically pulled the coverlet up to her neck with a squeak in an effort to hide herself. Had her maid not been there, she wouldn't have bothered. Erik stood at the foot of the bed holding a tray of food. "You slept through breakfast so I decided to bring you something. I apologize for entering without first asking if you were decent. I will leave it here on your vanity." He smirked and bowed low, "Until, our daily trip to the theatre and whatever fresh hell it has in store, my dear... Good day." Without another word, he turned and walked off.

Rehearsal that day went by very quickly. She couldn't help but smile at how Ottoboni and Calvino flinched every time Erik was on stage. Yesterday's events had finally convinced the duo that he was not a man to be crossed unless they had a death wish. "It seems that the old adage concerning old dogs and new tricks has been disproved." he whispered to her at the start of the second act, causing her to bite her tongue to avoid laughing aloud.

"Erik?" Christine called, marking her place in the novel resting on her lap. "Hmm?" He stopped playing, keeping his fingers poised over the keys. "Could you tell me more about this boat race tomorrow?" It was yet another serene evening spent in the music room following the day's rehearsal and dinner. Erik played soft melodies for her on the piano while she read, creating new ones as he went along. Though she had been immensely enjoying her latest literary pursuit and more than that, his music, eventually her eyes began to blur announcing it was time to stop for the night. " _I coul_ _d_ , if that's what you wish." She rolled her eyes at his reply and he turned to face her.

"The Henley Royal Regatta was established in March of 1839 for amateur oarsmen and lasts over the first weekend of July, running for two days. It began as the Henley Regatta until it received a Royal patronage from the late Prince Albert in 1851 and has held one ever since. The course runs upstream on the River Thames from Temple Island to a finish line opposite the Red Lion hotel. There will be several heats and events, however most noted is the Grand Challenge Cup. Does that satisfy?"

She nodded. "Who will be there?" Christine thought back to the last time they attended a comparable public event and remembered how terribly awkward and alone she felt without the company of her friends. Granted she _did_ meet Sir John at Royal Ascot, but the more people she knew the more comfortable she'd be. "A plethora of London's _finest_ , I daresay. Lords, ladies, and social climbers alike swarming about like midges in the summer heat." He made a face to match his tone of disgust. "Do not fret. Annabelle, William, Reginald, and John will all be in attendance, if that was what you were wondering."

"What of Monsieur Khan? I find him to be very entertaining." Erik snorted loudly, "As if anybody would extend an invitation to the likes of the Daroga. I'm afraid we will be spared his presence, if only I could say the same about the insufferable crowds. Oh well, small blessings I suppose." He gave her a shrug and prepared to resume his playing. "Oh, Erik, you are incorrigible, _truly_." she sighed in exasperation. Never for the life of her would she understand the odd camaraderie shared between the two men.

"You forgot _wicked_ and _diabolical_ , my dear." he added, harkening back to the ways in which she had referred to him the previous day. Erik strode over and took a seat next to her. "Did I? How silly of me!" He grinned, pushing back her wild curls and eyeing her exposed neck hungrily. She sucked in a sharp breath when his lips met her flesh. " _Mm, I am afraid so..._ No matter, I'm sure I can aid you in conjuring up _additional,_ equally charming descriptors."

There was a clonk as the book slid off her lap and met with the floor. Without thinking, she tore herself away from him to scoop it up and frantically thumbed through the pages to make sure her place had held before putting it on the table. "I would be most gratified if in the future, you asked for a bookmark rather than creasing my pages." he said with a frown. "Folds, stains, and wear are indicators of a book's value. Each tear, scuff, ink-splotch, and wrinkle show that it is cherished." Her statement won her a snigger.

"May I ask what absolute twit filled your head with that rubbish?" Christine flashed him a look of mild irritation. "There was this old man who owned a second-hand bookstore back in Sweden. If our earnings were good for the day, papa would allow me to choose a book. But, I gather you don't agree with his sentiment." Erik shook his head and stretched out his long legs cavalierly. "Fanciful words of an addled old fool to justify the deplorable condition of his wares, to be certain. I take it you've concluded reading for the night. Do you plan on retiring this early or is there some _other_ activity you'd care to undertake?" The bold innuendo of his question was further enhanced by the rampant desire in his eyes.

"Y-yes. I... I mean I didn't want to stop, but my vision grew tired. I was hoping y-you would read to me instead." she managed, blushing under his gaze. "But of course. Do you want me to continue where you left off or read you something else entirely? In the event of the latter, what shall you like to hear?"

"A story." The corners of his mouth quirked upward, "I gathered as much, my dear, but which story?" She paused momentarily and it came to her. "C-could you please tell me another folktale? Oh, _please!_ I adored the collection of fables from Persia and the one about the princess and the dwarf ever so much." He regarded her childlike anticipation with an affectionate chuckle. "Who am I to refuse you, darling Christine? I seem to recall you have a predilection for happy endings, if I am correct. Tell me, do you require such a concession now?"

"Certainly! I'm shocked you would even ask me such a thing, Erik. What's a story without a happy ending?" she pronounced with conviction. But, upon looking into his eyes and observing the torment swimming in their blue depths, she cursed her foolish tongue. "Not all tales conclude pleasantly... In fact, it is my experience that most do not." Erik responded somberly. His words held a painful, relevant truth that made her heart constrict on his behalf. It was clear that he was no longer speaking of fairy-tales but of his own tragic existence. Christine reached out and took his hand in hers. "I don't believe that's completely accurate. There's always room for a blissful ending. It is _my_ experience that some stories may appear bleak and hopeless and simply take longer to get their just outcome."

He stared at her with awe. Apparently she had seen through his cryptic remark and endeavored to reassure him. Such a simple gesture of comfort imbued him with faith. Could this mean that she would be the deliverance needed to provide positive closure to his tale of suffering and woe? Did he dare dream that she would agree to his proposal? There was plenty of time to think on such things in the days ahead. At present he would be content telling her a story. Unbeknownst to her, Erik had secretly been familiarizing himself with various anecdotes that he thought might meet with her approval. The way she had beamed sweetly following his retelling of _Princess Finola and the Dwarf_ stuck in his mind and he vowed to repeat this happening as often as possible. From this new mental library he selected one he thought fitting. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "Then a happy ending you shall have. Let me tell you the story of _La Belle et la Bête._ Have you heard it before?" She shook her head, excitement already bubbling to the fore.

 _There once lived a very wealthy merchant. Though he was widowed, his late wife had blessed him with six lovely children, three sons and three daughters. The merchant loved them all dearly and did not hesitate to shower them with lavish gifts, but he was also a sensible man and saw each of his children were given the best education that money would allow. Each of his daughters was a great beauty, but it was the youngest who was truly exceptional. As a child she was called Beauty, a sobriquet that remained even after she was grown. For in addition to her comeliness, she was the kindest and gentlest soul that ever there was. She was thankful for her father's generosity in seeing her tutored and spent much of her time reading. Her sisters, however, were vain and spiteful creatures, envious of their younger sister. They believed that their father's money rendered them above civility._

 _Life was grand for the family, but that peacefulness was not to last; fate turned as it is so wont to do. During a great storm at sea the merchant lost his entire fortune and was forced to sell his mansion in favor of a small country house. Just like that their life of sumptuous ease was traded for one of hard, honest labor by their own hands.  
_

 _An entire year passed them by when the merchant received word that a ship of his arrived in port and he set off to determine if the cargo held anything of value. Before he departed, he asked his children what gifts they wished him to bring back. His sons asked for fine weapons and horses to hunt with, while his two eldest daughters beseeched him for jewels, frocks, and baubles like the spoilt creatures they were; beauty, however, wanted nothing because she did not wish him to waste money on such frivolities. At her father's prodding, Beauty was content in asking that he bring her a rose, as they did not grow in that part of the country._

"I don't feel sorry for the sisters in the least, they sound like dreadful creatures. They deserve to work their fingers to the bone. Actually, they quite remind me of La Carlotta." Christine interjected, evidently embroiled in the narrative. "Indeed, there are a wealth of parallels present." he admitted. They shared a laugh between them before Erik resumed.

 _The good man went on his journey, but when he arrived, his cargo was seized as payment for his debts. Dismayed that he could not afford the presents he promised his children, he had no choice but to head back to the little farmhouse as poor and empty-handed as he had left.  
_

 _On the path back to his home, he became lost in a thick forest. The wind whipped up a terrible gale that brought with it rain and snow but he had no choice but to carry on soaked and shivering with hungry wolves on his tail. He had all but resigned himself to his grim fate when up ahead he saw a light and upon approaching it, found it to be a magnificent palace illuminated from foundation to tower. However, oddly enough it appeared to be deserted and not a soul came to greet him in the inner or outer courts. This was the case in the great hall as well, despite a roaring fire and sumptuous feast laid out for one._

 _He waited for the owner to show himself until the chill reached his bones and his stomach churned with hunger. Unable to delay any longer, he warmed himself by the fire and partook in the scrumptious food; with his belly full and his aged body thawed, he came to an exquisite down bed and laid down his weary head.  
_

 _The next morning he awoke refreshed and ready to resume his journey, the storm having blown over. Yet just the same as the night before, there was not a soul present. Still, ever a pious and good-natured man, he expressed his thanks to his invisible host. As he was leaving the mysterious palace, he beheld a splendid garden of roses and remembered Beauty's wish, satisfied that at least one of his children should have their present. So, he chose the loveliest rose in the garden, a bloom befitting his daughter's fairness, and plucked it only to be confronted by a hideous Beast. The Beast informed the man that for taking one of his precious flowers the punishment was death. The merchant apologized for his greed and explained that he only picked the rose as a gift for his youngest daughter, who desired such. Though the Beast was unmoved by the excuse, he was equitable and offered a proposal: the merchant was allowed to take the rose to Beauty on the condition that he either offer his own life or bring one of his daughters in his stead back to the castle within three moons.  
_

 _Understandably the man was quite upset by this deal, but nonetheless accepted it with the mind that he would be afforded one last glance upon his beloved children before his demise. In addition to the gift of the flower, the Beast sent the man off with a wealth of fine clothing, jewels, weapons, and horses for his other children and the man found comfort in knowing his progeny would be looked after once he was gone._

 _With a heavy heart, he returned home and presented Beauty with the bloom, informing his children that it came at great cost and recounting the story of the dreadful Beast and wonderful castle. His sons were outraged and vowed to dispatch the monster with their new weapons, but their father disallowed it, claiming they were all three no match for the fearsome creature. His eldest daughters were also angered, but their ire was directed at their sister, for in their wickedness they blamed her for their father's predicament. Beauty, being virtuous and kindhearted, took the blame unto herself and insisted she be delivered to the Beast._

She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Erik looked at her bitterly, she didn't need to speak for him to guess what she was thinking. The question, ' _Why would the beautiful young maiden sacrifice herself to a vicious beast?_ ' was written clearly in her eyes. "Please continue, Erik." she said, wishing desperately to know what awaited Beauty in the Beast's castle. "Why? Are you not afraid of what will befall the girl? A life of untold horrors, to be sure." Christine shook her head resolutely, "No. The Beast may be frightening but he is not a monster. After all, he let her father go when he could have just killed him. I know he won't harm her. Please finish?" He complied with her request despite his discomfiture over the similitude between this tale and his own life.

 _The merchant balefully agreed to escort Beauty to the Beast's palace, knowing that nothing he could say would change her mind, for she was steadfast in her choice. They came to the castle, illuminated as it was the first time the merchant happened upon it and just as before, a delectable feast awaited them. At the end of the meal, the Beast appears and, impressed with the man's honesty and strength of character, says the merchant is free to depart the next morning but may never return. Beauty, although terrified of his monstrous countenance and ugliness, urged her father to leave her there and remain true to his word.  
_

 _With her father gone Beauty decided to trust her fate to the hands of God, convinced that the Beast would certainly gobble her up that very night. Rather than lamenting her miserable plight, she explored the lovely palace and stumbled upon a suite marked as hers; the rooms were superbly furnished and contained many luxurious garments, jewels, several instruments accompanied by a hoard of music, and the greatest treasure of all: a magnificent library. Though she was pleased with all she had been given, she wished to see if her poor father had made it home safely. No sooner had she expressed it than a looking-glass revealed, to her amazement, her own home and her father's arrival. As the vision faded, Beauty realized that the Beast had no desire to eat her as she had feared.  
_

 _That night she found dinner ready, and while at table, was entertained with an excellent concert of music, though without seeing anybody. As she was going to sit down to supper, she heard the noise Beast made, and could not help the terror that sprang up within her. The monster, however, only asked if he could watch her sup. She answered that he could do as he pleased within his own home; but he corrected her, informing her that her wish was his command and she need only utter the word if she wanted him gone. He then inquired if she found him terribly ugly, to which she said that she did. Pleased by her truthfulness, he gave her the run of the entire palace, stating she alone was its mistress.  
_

 _Beauty was so moved by his generosity that she was temporarily able to look past his deformity and see the goodness within. She ate a hearty supper, and had almost conquered her dread of the monster until he asked her to be his wife. Though afeared of his wrath, she eventually refused him. He departed in sadness and nothing more was said of it that night.  
_

 _Three long months passed. Every evening Beast paid her a visit and talked to her during supper; Beauty daily discovered some valuable qualifications in the monster, and seeing him often had so accustomed her to his deformity, that, far from fearing the time of his visit, she would often look on her watch to see when it would be nine, for the Beast never missed coming at that hour. There was but one thing that gave Beauty any concern, which was, that every night, before she went to bed, the monster always asked her if she would be his wife. Each time she denied him, finally telling him that she could never love him as more than a friend.  
_

"That ungrateful little viper! After all the poor Beast has given her, she still is too petty to look past his form." Christine exclaimed acerbically, bringing a halt to his narration. He eyed her with a combination of surprise and amusement, "Surely you cannot blame her for recoiling from such ugliness." She pursed her lips in annoyance, "He has such a gentle heart and soul and those traits are far more valuable than looks. She doesn't deserve his love or devotion if she can't see that."

Though her words filled him with dumb hope that she might consent to one day be his, Erik only shrugged, "Ugly is ugly, my dear. Few to none would voluntarily shackle themselves to a hideous monster for eternity; and if they did so under their own volition, their sanity would be questionable at best in the eyes of the world." he replied sincerely. "The rest of the world can get stuffed. I would have gladly agreed to marry him!" she stated passionately, rendering him completely taken aback. "You would?" She surveyed his expression of disbelief and smiled, "Yes, of course! Do you think me a liar?"

"No, not at all." he answered awkwardly. "Then why do you even ask?" At her admission, he was wholly uncomfortable yet giddy at the same time and it made him feel wretchedly vulnerable. "N-no reason, I apologize for doubting you... Would you like to hear the end of the story? The hour is getting late and tomorrow requires an early start." Christine studied him skeptically for a moment, intrigued by his odd reaction before offering affirmation.

 _Within the looking-glass Beauty sees that her father has worried himself ill in their separation and now has none of his children by his side to offer comfort, as her brothers had joined the King's army and her sisters were now married. Grieved by what she saw, she asked the Beast if he would allow her a visit with her father; naturally he conceded, putting his own misery aside, for he could deny her nothing. Beauty was touched by his selflessness and upset that her request caused him so much sadness, so she promised to return to him after but one week. In spite of his heartbreak, he bade her farewell, but before she left he bequeathed her a magical ring that she needed only place on a tabletop in order to come back to him._

 _Upon arriving home, she was enthusiastically greeted by her beloved father, who was delighted to see her looking so well. She awoke the next morning to find that the Beast had also sent over trunks full of beautiful gowns for her to wear during her stay. So, Beauty dressed herself for the day and prepared to receive her sisters, both of whom she had dearly missed._

 _Marriage had done little to temper their nastiness and both were woefully unhappy with their new lives. When they saw their little sister bedecked in gorgeous finery and glowing with happiness, they grew incredibly jealous of her fortune and resentful of her genuine affection, and between the two of them devised a wicked plan. Somehow they had learnt that she was to return a certain day and endeavored to keep her longer, hoping that the Beast would devour as punishment for her betrayal.  
_

 _So after the week had passed, the two villainous sisters feigned sorrow and pleaded with Beauty to stay for one week more; Beauty, being a trusting soul, believed their pathetic ruse and agreed. Meanwhile, she was haunted by the melancholy her actions would surely cause Beast, for whom she held a great fondness and sorely wished to see again. On the tenth night, she had a most terrible dream that she was in the palace garden and saw Beast extended on the grass plat, expiring; and with his dying breath, reproached her for her ingratitude. She started out of her sleep and wept, lamenting her foolishness in refusing his marriage proposal. Although she did not hold tenderness of affection for him, she realized that his compassion, goodness, and sweetness of temper were far better attributes than wit or looks alone; and reasoned that even if she only felt friendship and appreciation towards him, their match would be a happy one.  
_

 _Her mind made up, Beauty placed the ring on her vanity and the next morning was back at the palace. She was overjoyed and donned her richest wrapper to please him, anxiously whiling away the day until the blessed hour was upon her; yet the clock struck nine and Beast did not appear. Beauty then feared she had been the cause of his death; she ran crying and wringing her hands all about the palace searching for him but alas, he was nowhere in sight. She then recollected her dream and went to the gardens from which her father had plucked the rose.  
_

 _There she found poor Beast, who was by all appearances dead. She threw herself upon his corpse and wept bitterly, however as her head lay on his breast she discovered his heart still beat; she fetched water from the canal in the garden and poured it unto his head. Beast opened his eyes and said to Beauty, "You forgot your promise and I was so afflicted for having lost you, that I resolved to starve myself, but since I have the happiness of seeing you once more, I die satisfied."_

"No! Please tell me that's not the end, Erik!" Christine cried imploringly, sitting up to look at him. She had long-since reclined contentedly to rest her head on his chest as the rich timbre of his voice painted a compelling picture. Although she had kept the lateness of the hour in mind and refrained from commenting despite her desire to do so, she could no longer hold back at learning Beast's fate. He stared at her intently, "Nay, it is not the story's conclusion. I promised you a joyful ending and I am loath to renege. Now have you anything more to say or may I continue?" She gave an abashed nod and laid back once more. "Sorry for interrupting you again, I just want Beast to find happiness."

 _Beauty sobbed mightily with despair and begged him to live so that they may be wed; for her powerful grief at believing she lost him beyond the curtain of death had convinced her of her love for him. She had scarce pronounced these words when the palace lit up and there was a great show of fireworks in conjunction with the most beautiful music. But nothing could distract her. She turned to her dear Beast, only to find that he was disappeared. Instead she saw, at her feet, one of the loveliest princes that the eye ever beheld; and whom offered his eternal thanks for breaking the curse that had been cast upon him. Though this prince was worthy of all her attention, she could not forbear asking where her Beast had gone._

 _The prince confessed that he and Beast were one in the same and that long ago an evil fairy had turned him into a fell beast and prevented him from revealing his true form; the only thing that could break the spell was the pure love of a maiden fair, who cherished the goodness in his soul despite his ugliness. He then offered Beauty his hand, which she accepted, and they two journeyed back into the palace whereupon Beauty's family was waiting; she was ecstatic to find them there but wondered how such a thing was possible, no sooner had she thought it than a lovely fairy appeared. "Beauty," said this lady, "come and receive the reward of your judicious choice; you have placed virtue and sweetness of temper before either wit or beauty, and deserve to find a person in whom all these qualifications are united. You shall make a great queen."  
_

 _Though the enchantress praised her faithfulness and humility a thousand times over, she condemned the selfishness and maliciousness of Beauty's older sisters; with a wave of her wand everyone present was transported into the prince's dominions and were met with much rejoicing from his subjects. The prince and Beauty were soon wed and would live to the end of their days in jubilation, while her two sisters were transformed into statues that stood at the palace gates, however the fairy had let them retain their minds so that they'd be forced to witness Beauty's joy until they crumbled into dust._

"That was a delightful story, Erik and the ending was perfect. I couldn't think of a more fitting punishment for those two wicked harpies." she said, dabbing at the moisture in her eyes with her sleeve until he produced a handkerchief from his pocket. "I'm glad you found it entertaining, my dear." he replied, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. Christine sat up "But, I was wondering, did you choose that particular story for a reason? It just seems _awfully..._ "

"Allegorical?" he finished, raising a brow. Immediately her face turned bright pink and she hastily tried to explain herself, but floundered miserably. "N-no, no! I didn't mean to imply that you were the Beast from the story! I don't want you to think that—" Erik held up his hand to quiet her, "While, the anecdote was one I selected on chance, the similarities between it and our own story are not lost on me. However, I must point out that although we share the trait of a monstrous countenance, there is one key point on which he and I differ... I doubt _anybody_ would classify my temperament as sweet."

It was meant as a joke, but she saw no humor in it. On the contrary, it enraged her to think of all those despicable people who bandied words such as: _monster, freak, creature,_ and _beast_ about in regards to him when it was they who should be described in such terms. "Then they are small-minded imbeciles who do not see you as I do!" she expressed with confidence. Erik couldn't have been more stunned in that moment than if the moon fell out of the sky and into the music room; and his expression indicated as much. He was unable to formulate a response, so she capitalized on his silence.

"Now, we'll have no more of that sort of talk. You are not a monster in the least and I shan't hear otherwise. How about one more story? A short one this time." she asked with a grin. "Oh, my dearest, you know I cannot decline." So he conceded and wove her another glorious tale until her eyelids grew heavy, at which point he carried her to her room.

Erik paused after tucking her into bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the coverlet, a vestige of a smile still lingering on her lips; she looked so peaceful and it was difficult for him to grasp that he had been the cause. Though he longed to plant a worshipping kiss upon her beautiful face, he settled for brushing an errant curl off her face, not wanting to disturb her. The evening had ended much later than he anticipated but had not a complaint to offer, for every second spent with her was truly magical and promised to be the salvation he now desired. Once he had been content to remain on the outside of humanity, paying no heed to their trivial laws or ignorant beliefs, yet Christine had changed all of that, _changed him._ And he had never felt more human in the entirety of his pitiful existence than he felt in her arms.

"You, sweet Beauty, are a singular creature to find goodness in the tarnished soul of this old Beast. I could never fathom loving another as deeply as I love you. You are my heart, my life, my salvation and my happily ever after..." he whispered, stroking her cheek one last time before leaving her to her dreams.

* * *

 **I know it's cliché but I thought it was sweet. Don't you agree?**

 **For those who are wondering, I used Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont's 1756 version of the tale.**

 **I love Christine's insistence on a happy ending. Maybe she will receive hers as well, hmm?**

 **Rate and review? Three more chapters soon to follow, but they won't be pointless like this one. ;)**


	30. The Stranger

**First off: thank you for reviewing! They make my day, truly.**

 **PhantomFan01: I know! But, we still have a few weeks left until the opera so maybe we will get lucky and both Ottoboni and Calvino will get crushed by some falling scenery. Hahaha, don't get _too_ used to the fluffiness and/or romance. There are some not-so-happy times ahead. Thanks for your kind words and I am glad you like it so far!**

 **Anyways, here's chapter 2 out of 4. Timeline-wise we are at the first weekend in July. Then things will pick up roughly a week or so later, bringing us to mid-July. Which gives us about two weeks before the opera's opening night.**

* * *

All too soon she was standing in front of the Red Lion hotel for the second time and reminiscing on the previous day. When they first arrived she had studied the Thames with excitement. She had never seen a boat race before and was giddy to be sharing it with Erik. Ruefully she thought back to other _first_ experiences she should have shared with him. No, she refused to dwell on the past. The only thing that mattered was that he was _hers_ now and hopefully _forever._ If she could never ask the Lord for another thing, she wished to be her Angel's wife.

"I daresay whomever elected white as an appropriate color for a day on the water was woefully ignorant. Nevertheless, you make it look stunning." he had told her, observing her black and white frock with obvious approval. She laughed gaily, "I think you should amend that statement, I don't believe white is a fitting color for _any_ outdoor pursuits. I'm terrified that I will brush up against something or gather enough dirt in my skirts to pot a plant." Even though they were making small talk, Christine couldn't help her gladness that his mood seemed to have lightened since their reunion. "What can I expect to see today? I've never been to a boat race before."

"Nor have I, my dear. I would presume that there will be a series of heats and perhaps a final race, but to my knowledge tomorrow is when the majority of the awards will be given." She had looked at him then, unsure of how she should express her next thought. "W-would you stay and watch with me then? It seemed fitting since neither of us have attended a regatta before. If you find it agreeable, of course." Erik smiled and squeezed her hand, "I would find it _most_ agreeable to share in this novel experience with you. That is, _if_ you feel up to the challenge of tolerating my presence." And, so he had spent the entirety of the event by her side. Their friends had joined them for most of it and overall Christine thought it an immensely pleasing affair.

She hoped today would follow the same pattern but was slightly disappointed when Erik joined the other men after the first race. But, she supposed it counted for something that he only did so reluctantly. As always, Dorothy had worked wonders for her appearance, clothing her in a smart seaside dress of pinstriped Naples yellow and cream and a straw hat adorned with a matching satin ribbon and several yellow rosebuds.

Annabelle, William, John, and Reginald were in attendance again as well. Although, the men, with the exception of Erik, seemed more focused on discussing business and enjoying refreshments than the actual race; a fact which appeared to incense Annabelle. Shaking her head in disapproval at the shortsightedness of the other sex, the blonde whisked her away to stake out a better position along the river. The event began some time ago and if they relied on their male company, they would undoubtedly miss the whole thing.

"Ugh, men and their _affairs_! They could easily deal with such at the club or in the office, yet they prefer to ruin our leisurely afternoons with dribble over their current enterprises!" the young girl bemoaned, making the brunette giggle. Christine felt the same way, but harbored some disagreement where Erik was concerned; at least today. In spite of her being some distance away she never felt his attention leave her and it filled her with pride. She could always tell when he was fixated on her, even during her days at the Populaire. He had an unsettling intensity to his gaze that was more reminiscent of a predator than a man. What was he currently thinking about? _Was it her?_

Erik found it a mighty struggle to keep track of the race with Christine present and had withdrawn from the conversation around him, pausing to politely nod here and there. In her sunny frock, she was a true vision of undeniable beauty and he realized how he wanted nothing more than to behold her shining smile and wild curls every single day for the rest of his life. Eventually he gave up on his attempts to follow the progress of the boats and shifted his focus solely to her. Thankfully the regatta had nearly concluded and soon he would be free to spend the remainder of the day with her and her alone. So enamored was he that he failed to notice Sir John's approach until the latter spoke. Hell, he hadn't even realized the man had walked off in the first place!

"Say, dear chap, do you know that portly fellow over there?" Erik turned slightly and glanced at the pudgy, balding man from his periphery. _How odd_ , in his reverie his normally acute senses had failed him and he couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed by the fact. Apparently Christine had the ability to hold his concentration absolutely and he couldn't help but be glad that he hadn't met her in Persia; he would have most-assuredly been dead in that case. "I cannot say that I do. He appears to simply be a guest of the hotel. Why do you ask?" He looked again to find the man had disappeared. _Curious._

"No, reason in particular. It just seemed like he was watching you. Anyways, I didn't trek over here for naught, I had a request I wanted to make of you, old friend..." John continued, already having moved past the news of the bizarre man. But Erik could not, he was filled with that same foreign unease he felt upon exiting the carriage on Ladies' Day. Once again he had a notion of foreboding and wondered if the letter was connected in some way. He made a mental note to pay the pesky Daroga a visit tomorrow for peace of mind.

"You are fortunate it is a pleasant day and I am in the mood to tolerate such entreaties." Erik replied wryly, eliciting a jubilant laugh from the other man. "Ah, but you forget that you owe me for the recent acquisition I made in your name during my business on the Continent."

"I _hardly_ think your performing the job a client pays you for entails indebtedness." John ignored him, "You are familiar with Cowes Week, yes?" Erik gave a puzzled nod of affirmation. What did another bloody event on the social calendar have to do with anything? "If you are inquiring as to _if_ I was planning on attending, I must regretfully inform you that I am not. Dreadfully sorry, Norton..." he said, taking a step forward.

"Well, it just so happens that I've acquired an old cutter and am desperately in need of a crew..." Erik halted in place.

" _No._ " he responded succinctly, cutting the man off. _Well, that had been easy..._ The solicitor was unfazed by his refusal and grinned slyly. "Yes, I thought you might say that. In which case, I've no choice but to resort to coercion." _This_ got his attention. _Coercion_? Did John actually have something on him or was it a bluff? He hoped it was the latter; over the past two years he had grown rather fond of the man and would hate to have to kill him at this stage. Erik held his breath and waited anxiously, but was never given a chance to find out because Christine had chosen that exact moment to seek him. "Ah, Madame de Chagny, hopefully you can persuade our dear friend to accept my request. What do you say?" John greeted cheerfully, relishing in Erik's displeasure; the scowl on his face could curdle milk.

"Oh? I've no idea what you're talking about. What is this request, Monsieur Norton?" she asked, evidently curious.

"The misguided dolt has apparently purchased a yacht and is under the foolish notion that he will be racing it next month during Cowes Week. He was just in the process of attempting to recruit me for his crew." he summarized, wishing to whisk Christine away to somewhere less crowded. Dorothy was truly talented and could somehow make her even _more_ beautiful each time. It was ironic that lady's maids spent so much time dressing their mistresses to look alluring, only for their husbands and lovers to wish to undo all that hard work. In fact, that's all he had been able to think about since he first laid eyes on her that afternoon.

She turned to John, "Is that all true?" He flashed her a disarming smile that made Erik's fist twitch. "Yes, that's about the long and short of it. Though, he failed to mention that I _am_ slotted to compete and that Baron Suffield and Colonel Crawford have already agreed to join me. We simply cannot have the dear chap left out."

" _You most certainly can!_ Do I look like a sailor to you?" he snapped, desperately wishing to return home and wash the sweat off in a cool bath. Yesterday had been cloudy and blessedly breezy but today was the exact opposite; and the stifling July heat was doing little to ease his irritation. Where had his friend gotten this idiotic idea that he would ever consent to an afternoon of frivolous sailing? He didn't even particularly care for travelling by boat. "I daresay with the proper attire you shall look the part quite convincingly." Was John aware that each word he spoke placed him closer to meeting God?

Now his only potential savior was the young brunette standing in front of him. With whom would she side? If her look of keen interest was any indication, he would _not_ emerge victorious from this argument. "Ooh, I think it's a marvellous idea! I would love to watch all of you race; Annabelle and I shall be happy to cheer from the shore." _Finally_ , the reply he had been dreading. _Damn!_ If only the solicitor had waited until _after_ the Grand Challenge Cup, then maybe he could have escaped this whole debacle. "Is it a race like today's regatta?"

"It is similar in that it is technically a regatta, however sailing yachts are used and rather than a river it is held on the Solent." She beamed up at him and a thousand curses reverberated throughout his head. "That sounds awfully thrilling!" _Speak for yourself..._ he thought. "You'll do it, won't you?" He nodded in defeat. This woman would be the death of him!

John opened his mouth to speak, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "If you are considering gloating, perhaps _consider_ all the ways in which I can end your life instead." Erik growled under his breath to prevent Christine from overhearing. His friend wisely heeded the warning, "On an aside, do not think I've forgotten your earlier mention of extortion. I fully intend to revisit that on another day."

That Monday Erik went to see the Persian but received no answers. The rest of the week went by without incident and with the exception of an early rehearsal on Friday and his tutoring of Francesco for an hour each day, life was stable and mundane. Predictably, Mr. Porter required his professional opinion on something to do with acoustics; truthfully he hadn't been paying much attention as the fat manager blathered on. Instead he was focused on the upcoming weekend. He had no designs to attend any social events and with his work in the opera, he had turned over the decisions regarding the concert hall's programs to the maestro and Reginald. Perhaps he would plan something special for Christine... a picnic lunch, stroll through the gardens, romantic dinner, or something similar.

Eventually the old windbag tired and dismissed him. Though it hadn't been more than five minutes he was nonetheless eager to leave and made his way back to the stage. But something wasn't right, he felt that familiar disquiet in his bones and searched out Christine; he had left her in the company of several female cast members she seemed to get on with but now he could see no sign of any of them. Then he located her. Relief washed over him upon seeing she was safe and engaged in conversation, but it was short-lived. His breath hitched when he saw the _someone_ she was talking to... it was the same man from the past weekend's regatta; the one who had been watching him. Now he had found Christine! Without another thought, he set off swiftly to uncover this disturbing conundrum.

However, by the time he reached her side, the man was gone. "Come with me, we're leaving." he ordered, grabbing her wrist and pulling her along. Thankfully she did not protest; he was unsure how he would have handled it if she had. "Erik, please slow down. What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, not at all liking the present situation. But she received neither reply nor reprieve until they were waiting on the curb for their carriage. Though he released her tingling wrist, he stayed silent and she rubbed the tender skin absentmindedly. What on earth had gotten into him?

It was not until they were in the carriage that he spoke. "That man at the theatre. What did he want, Christine?" he growled through gritted teeth. Normally he would have simply tracked the bastard down and put his Punjab lasso to good use, but he was currently unwilling to leave her side. " _I..._ what man?" Damn her ignorance! _Couldn't she see this was no time for such games?_ "The man with whom you were speaking not a moment ago." Holding his patience in check was growing steadily more difficult. She looked at him in befuddlement before answering, " _Oh_ , the plump, middle-aged one?"

"YES! Who was he?! Did he give you his name?! What did he want?! _Answer me!_ " he pressed, seizing her by the shoulders. There was a crazed glint in his eye and Christine racked her brain for the cause of his anger. Was he jealous? Was this man an enemy of his? Either way he was beginning to frighten her. "H-he s-said his name w-was Monsieur Duchamp and he wanted to know a-about you."

"What about me?! What did he say?!" This caught him off-guard and confirmed his suspicions: the man from the regatta and this Monsieur Duchamp were one in the same and he was being followed. What was worse, this mystery man had linked him to Christine and her life might be in danger as well. His only course of action was to ascertain what she knew and pass the information along to the Daroga. He chuckled inwardly. Apparently he _had_ grown soft; before he would not have hesitated to kill the scoundrel first and discover his identity later. But even if she wasn't a part of his life, he had worked too hard to cultivate a respectable public image to commit a capital offense on a whim.

All these questions were giving him a headache and eroding his already frazzled nerves. "Well?! _OUT WITH IT!_ " Erik barked, shaking her. " _I-I-I..._ P-please, Erik, y-y-you're s-scaring m-me!" She looked positively terrified and ready to burst into tears. He removed his hands with a sigh and mustered all the restraint he could, "I apologize. Please answer my questions, Christine. What did Monsieur Duchamp wish to know about me?" It was a struggle to keep his tone calm and even but somehow he managed. "N-no! I will not answer your questions until I know what's going on and why you're acting so strangely!" She folded her arms over her chest in defiance.

Oh, this was going to be a _long_ ride. Erik took a long, deep breath. "I cannot tell you very much, for I am nearly as uninformed as you. I can only say that I have my suspicions about this Monsieur Duchamp's identity and intentions. However, it would help me greatly if you are able to recount the conversation and might shed some light on these unknown variables. Is that reply adequate?" She nodded, though she was just as puzzled as ever. "He said that he had noticed that I was the lead opposite you and asked if we were friendly; he referred to you by name and knew mine as well. He then wanted to know if you were the same Monsieur Leroux who designed the Royal Albert Hall and composed in your leisure time. Most of the things were very generalized. When I questioned his purpose, he said he was in London on business, overheard your name and was curious whether you were the Erik Leroux he knew a long time ago back in France. Does he sound familiar?"

Erik was absolutely floored and didn't know whether to pay heed to his fear, rage, or murderous desires. "No. It appears you have been cruelly deceived as an unwitting pawn..." he said with a venomous hiss that made her shudder. "Tell me, Christine, and this is _extremely_ important, did you reveal anything about yourself or me? It is imperative that I know if you did, even if it was unintentional." The grave seriousness of his voice compelled her to respond honestly and left no room for lies. "N-no. I told him I had just come to this country to perform and did not know you outside of the production."

"Good." Now he was truly concerned! It was one thing to spy on and threaten him but Christine was another matter entirely. He doubted his ability to protect her and it made his blood boil like magma in his veins. If he could not even watch over her at a blasted rehearsal, how would he keep her safe when he was out on business? This man had evidently found a chink in his armor and it was utterly unacceptable! For the first time in over twenty years, he was faced with the disgusting prospect of his own impotency. No, he swore he would never be powerless again after Javert; and, he was not about to start now that he had something in his miserable life worth fighting over!

Her confession was met with stony silence and she feared that she had done something horribly wrong. "Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry. I simply believed him to be a nosy journalist or something of the like. I should never have spoken with him! Please, don't be upset with me!" Still nothing. Had she just snuffed out the fragile flames of bliss that had been building between them over the last two weeks? "Why won't you say anything?!" The uncertainty conjured by his reticence overwhelmed her and hot, fat tears slid down her cheeks.

A sigh finally broke through the lull. Truthfully he had needed the quiet to arrange his pounding thoughts and hadn't meant to rattle her. Did she really care that deeply about his opinion? He was not cross with her in the least, but clearly she believed differently. "Please do not cry, there's no cause to weep. You needn't worry, Christine, you are far from the culprit of my animosity. I must thank you for your discretion, though." They came to a stop and she knew she would get nothing more from him. Strangely enough he had the carriage driver wait outside while he escorted her into the house. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, I have some urgent business I must attend to right away." It was clear he was trying for the life of him to exude an air of detached rationality but his eyes exposed his true emotions. She sincerely hoped that he wasn't about to slip back into his old ways and confront the man. What if Erik was going to torture and murder him? If the authorities arrested or even suspected him, they might find out about the Opera Populaire and then he was sure to hang. Christine clutched her chest and braced herself on the corner of the table to keep from fainting at this horrid revelation. "W-what are you going to do?"

"It's just as I said, I have some urgent business. However, you can relax, I am not going to track down our new friend. I would like you to remain in the house until I return." Without waiting for an answer, he summoned Mrs. Foley and pulled her aside. "Elsie, I need you to ensure that Madame de Chagny does not, under _any_ circumstances, leave the house. It is imperative that my orders are obeyed. You are to keep the doors and windows secured and may not allow anyone entry. Are we clear on the matter?" The maid nodded, not at all understanding the reasons behind her master's queer requests. But, she knew better than to interrogate him and wasn't sure she even wanted to be a privy party.

Christine tearfully watched him exit the house from the parlor window. The day had begun as an innocuous one among many, average in every way, but had quickly transitioned into something fearful and dubious. What was going on? Who was that man? Was Erik in danger? She had so many questions and only his vague reassurances. At first she had believed him to be jealous of the stranger, but the way he gripped her tight and spirited her away said otherwise. Plus, now he had insisted she stay indoors and she swore she overheard him telling Mrs. Foley not to let anyone inside. With a cry of pure frustration, she threw herself down on the couch. _Damn, Erik and his secrets!_

"DAROGA! I must speak with you at once!" Darius had scarcely opened the door when Erik burst in, wild-eyed and visibly frazzled. In his single-mindedness, he very nearly bowled the poor servant over. The commotion had startled Nadir and made him spill scalding tea all over his lap. Needless to say, he was not pleased to have company. "What in the name of almighty Allah is this about, Erik? he snapped. Erik beheld him with mild interest, though whether that was owing to his snappishness or the large wet stain on his personage, he did not know.

"Where are you in your investigation? Have you uncovered anything as of yet?" Erik decided to jump straight to the point of his visit. He was in desperate need of answers and had no tolerance for formalities. "Nothing since you came by on Monday. I'm afraid all the leads we've followed have run cold. We traced the telegram back to where it originated and apparently a street urchin was paid to take it to the office. Currently we are in the process of combing the area to see if we can locate the boy."

"I never expected this level of incompetence from you, Daroga. Your efforts make bureaucracy look positively efficient." he shot, pacing like a caged tiger.

"What is all of this about, Erik? What's happened?" It was clear from the masked man's restlessness that this was not simply a social call or a cause to nag him over his progress; something had occurred.

"I was correct when I surmised I had been under surveillance. During last weekend's regatta it came to my attention that a short, portly balding man appeared to be watching me. At the time, I waved it aside as coincidence but today I encountered the same man, this time at the Opera Comique. He sought out Christine and wished to know about me. Apparently he suspected a link between us and knew her name as well; she said he had a thick French accent."

This news came as a shock and the Persian forgave his friend's earlier rudeness. The situation was indeed more dire than previously believed, first the mysterious telegram and now this. Maybe Erik hadn't been as paranoid as Nadir thought. "I do not blame you for fearing for your safety."

Erik laughed acerbically. "Do you think I am worried about my own contemptible hide? Believe it or not, my _skills_ have not dulled. If you require proof, you may ask one Laurence Paulding, Viscount Hinton. No, I can care for myself. However now I have certain _assets,_ shall we say, that require protection."

" _Christine..._ " Nadir breathed, suddenly very concerned for the girl's sake. Despite only meeting her once, he rather liked her and could easily understand why the other man was enamored.

"Well, I was not referring to my uncle's parrot..." came the sardonic retort.

"Speaking of uncle, do you think there is a connection between the telegram and this man?" Erik flashed the Persian a look that could freeze a tropical sea at the height of summer.

"What a moronic inquiry! You've truly surpassed yourself with this one, Daroga. Are you going to ask next if there is a connection between the moon and the tides?" he sneered.

"Really now, Erik, there's no need to be abusive. I shall double my efforts. Hopefully the description you gave will help us to identify him, I will pass it along through the appropriate channels posthaste." Nadir's chastisement was met with an unapologetic glare; he had no idea why he even bothered to still offer reprimand after all these years. "Speaking of Christine, have you disclosed any of this to her?"

"Why in hell would I do that? So she can share in my neurosis and see enemies around every bend? _No_ , ignorance is the best path for her; at least until we have more information. But you can rest assured that I have taken some minor precautions in light of today's situation."

" _Minor_ precautions?" Allah, what did that mean?! "Yes, I told her not to leave the residence unless I am there to escort her and I've also instructed my maid to not answer the door under any circumstances. I am currently debating whether to station someone at the house when I am absent—"

"You mean to tell me that you have essentially imprisoned the young woman without giving her a reason?!" the Persian interrupted incredulously. For someone in possession of such brilliance, sometimes his friend was sorely lacking in sense. Women were by nature curious and from observing the way Christine interacted with Erik, he doubted she was the mild and meek type that would obey without sufficient justification. This would probably end badly.

"I would scarcely classify it as imprisonment." the younger man scoffed and Nadir could tell that there was no winning this argument. He sighed. "Just don't do anything too rash, all right? Besides, we do not even know if she's in peril. All of this could be a wild overreaction; you should not always assume the worst, my friend."

"It is in my nature to assume the worst." Erik bitterly reminded him. An uncomfortable pause followed and he realized he shouldn't have said anything. Asking a man who had endured the worst of humanity from birth was unlikely to take any threat, real or perceived, idly; he would have more luck getting a leopard to change its spots.

Finally his guest relaxed a bit and Nadir took the opportunity to change the subject. "So who was that Viscount Hinton you mentioned? Please tell me you did not kill him. You made a promise to me, Erik..." When this Laurence Paulding chap had been referenced, it piqued his interest but he had pushed it aside. Now he contemplated what fate might have befallen the man; he thought the former Angel of Doom had changed and prayed he wasn't wrong.

"This one requires full use of that keen mind. Tell me, Daroga, how you would carry out a conversation with a dead man? Methinks it would be _dreadfully_ one-sided. No, I did not kill him, despite being within my right to do so, and would be lying if I said I did not want to." Nadir opened his mouth to ask what his friend meant by ' _right_ ,' but was cut off by Erik. "He challenged me to a duel publicly and I had no choice but to accept for the sake of my honor. _Honor._ Such an queer concept..." he jeered condescendingly. "The bastard turned before his paces were complete and attempted to shoot me in the back. I suppose a man is entitled to a fair fight but a monster dare not claim such rights."

"Erik..." the other man started but was silenced by an impatient gesture. "It hardly matters, though. I doubt he will be able to enjoy the Glorious Twelfth without use of his dominant hand. Clearly he gravely underestimated my accuracy with a pistol." With an arrogant flourish he withdrew his pocket watch. "I must go. Be sure to relay this new development to Scotland Yard promptly and inform me of anything you uncover, no matter how trivial. You've not had any difficulty corresponding with Ronald, I trust?"

"Not in the least. I've found the Assistant Commissioner to be a rather pleasant fellow and a joy to work with. We've also discovered a mutual appreciation for fine cigars."

"You've no idea how much that warms my heart, Daroga, truly. Shall I place the engagement announcement in _The Times_ or _The Guardian_?"

"You know, I don't _have_ to help you." Nadir retorted irritably, rising to show his guest to the door. "No, but you already agreed. Besides, your retirement hardly presents you with more stimulating ways to spend your time."

Erik paused before walking out, his hand resting on the door knob. "You would do well to locate and question this man, Daroga. If you do not, I promise that I _will;_ what I cannot tell you, is _what_ I'll do when I find him. I feel I should inform you that I consider my promise to be null and void if there's even the slightest possibility that Christine is at risk."

There was no room for doubt in his words. If he did not solve this riddle, his friend would take matters into his own hands and the outcome was certain. By bringing Christine into things, the poor devil had sealed his fate. The gloves were off, so to speak, not that they had ever really been _on_ with Erik.

* * *

 **John better be carefully about blackmailing Erik! What dirt could he possibly have?**

 **So now we have a stranger to worry about in addition to that mysterious telegram. I wonder if the meeting from a few chapters ago, the telegram, and this new person are all related? My gut says yes. But who could be orchestrating all of this?**

 **Looks like Erik is freaking out, though. I hope that doesn't make him do anything stupid in the immediate future.**

 **Two more chapters immediately to follow because I am being generous!**

 **Rate and Review to show your appreciation? ;)**


	31. A Cage

**I hope you've enjoyed the lightheartedness of the last few chapters because it stops here (for the most part). There's something big coming up and stuff is unraveling. If Erik has been too mellow and sweet for any of you thus far, this chapter and the next should make you happy.**

 **Well, nothing more to say on this front other than enjoy!**

* * *

Erik returned from Nadir's flat late in the afternoon in a foul temper with three things on his mind: a stiff drink, expressing his anger through music, and _her_. Oh, how she had changed him in just a few short months! Previously he would not have hesitated to subject his wrath unto his fellow man or withdraw into solitude, but presently all he wanted was to bask in her soothing company. Upon arriving back home, he threw open the front door and stalked down the hall, pouring himself a scotch and shedding his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat. After a few calming sips of the fiery liquid Erik went to seek out Christine.

The very first place he checked was the music room but other than the instruments, it was empty. _Strange._ She usually spent her afternoons there, but perhaps she had gone to lie down after the day's early rehearsal. Next he checked her bedroom, carefully opening the door so as to not wake her; however it was just as deserted as the music room. This revelation slightly unnerved him but he nevertheless searched a few other rooms and was met with the same result, or lack there of. By the time he reached the kitchen he was in a panic. _Where was she? Had something happened? Why had he been stupid enough to leave her unguarded?  
_

He was so lost in all the deplorable possibilities and explanations that he nearly walked into Mrs. Foley. From the expression on her face, it was clear that she thought him to be in some fit of madness. "Is there something you need, sir?" she asked, surveying the crazed look in his eyes. That was all it took for him to lose it. "Yes, there bloody well is! Where is Madame de Chagny?! I've searched the house and there is no sign of her!"

Mrs. Foley cocked her head, wondering to what his bizarre mania was owed. "She left with Miss Annabelle to go shopping not two hours ago and should be back soon." No sooner had the words left her lips than Erik fell into a barbarous rage, sweeping the pots off the counter with one stroke of his arm and rounding on the person before him. "I THOUGHT I MADE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR THAT SHE WAS NOT TO LEAVE THIS HOUSE WITHOUT MY ACCOMPANIMENT!" he roared, his fury bringing a metallic tang to his saliva. His fingers were twitching, anxious to wrap themselves around someone's throat in punishment. "B-but M-miss Annabelle is no stranger..." she stammered, slowly backing away from the seething madman in front of her. _God Almighty, he wanted to kill!_

"IT MATTERS NOT! SHE WAS FORBIDDEN FROM LEAVING THE HOUSE WITHOUT ME! WHERE DID SHE GO?!" He savagely hurled a glass at the wall and watched it shatter into dust. " _WELL?!_ " He cornered the maid once again and hung over her like a great black shadow, looking every bit an incarnation of the Grim Reaper. "I-I don't know, sir."

"DAMN YOU TO HELL, _WOMAN!_ " Erik bellowed, throwing a plate to punctuate his declaration. Tearing at his hair, he ascended the stairs two at a time cursing the maid's ignorance. He walked the hallway menacingly, debating whether he should track her down or wait for her to come back. Eventually he settled on the latter, it was getting late anyways. He endured another hour of furious pacing interspersed with loud swears in several languages before he heard giggling outside and two giddy young women came through the front door. Both Christine and Annabelle stopped and stared at the figure standing in the foyer with mild surprise. He must have been the very portrait of insanity. "Erik, I didn't expect you b—" The brunette said, approaching him with bags in hand.

"WHERE IN THE HELL WERE YOU?!" he thundered, interrupting her mid-sentence. She jumped back slightly in alarm, pondering what on earth could have pushed him into such a state. He had been coldly aloof earlier but now he was in a violent rage. Her friend on the other hand was nothing short of terrified and she felt a pang of resentment that he brazenly subjected the girl to this side of his personality.

"I-I think I will take my leave." Annabelle squeaked, her already large blue eyes the size of saucers. "Yes, I believe that to be a wise decision, Mademoiselle. Good day." Erik answered, regaining temporary mastery over his temper. The blonde nodded, throwing one last fearful glance at her friend before hurrying out the door.

Annabelle's departure afforded Christine just enough time to get over the initial shock of his confrontation. Bewilderment soon turned to outrage. "HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS LIKE THAT!" she screamed, catching him off-guard with her outburst; although he quickly recovered.

"I WILL SPEAK TO YOU _HOWEVER_ I PLEASE WITHIN MY OWN HOME! MY ORDERS WERE SIMPLE! YOU WERE TO STAY HERE UNLESS I WAS PRESENT TO ESCORT YOU!"

This _really_ inflamed her! Did he honestly believe he was her keeper and that she'd sit at home, whiling away the hours until he felt generous enough to take her for a walk? She was not a mongrel dog content to wait on its master! "I AM _NOT_ A PRISONER AND I SHALL COME AND GO AS I PLEASE, ERIK!" Christine crossed her arms and stared at him, mutiny swirling in the brown of her irises.

Her apparent stance of rebellion did nothing to calm his acrimony. _Stupid girl!_ Did she think he enjoyed clipping her wings or take pleasure in restricting her outings? Didn't she register in all her puerile obstinacy that this was a necessary precaution for her safety? "YOU DARE DEFY ME?!" he yelled, taking a step towards her.

Surprisingly, she held her ground with steadfast determination. " _I BELIEVE I JUST DID!_ " she retorted. In that moment he would not have been surprised if he burst into flame, so powerful was his umbrage. What happened to the meek and gentle girl he remembered from the opera? He already knew she had matured over the past two years but until then he hadn't grasped just _how_ much. It appeared somewhere along the line she had become quite a lioness, one who was so bold as to oppose even him. _Him!_ The Angel of Doom, the spectre whose name alone could instill terror in the heart of the bravest men. And here stood this slip of a girl flouting his authority and shouting it right back in his face.

The nerve of it all was unreal. "You would be unwise to do so a second time... THIS IS _MY_ HOUSE AND YOU _WILL_ OBEY ME, WOMAN!" Christine laughed bitterly, "Last I checked I was _not_ your wife and therefore you have no say over what I can and cannot do! You can't just lock me up like a jailer! I will do as I wish and if you think you can stop me, you're mistaken!"

Though her voice was barely raised, her words stung cruelly. He didn't need a reminder that she was a heavenly being perched far from his reach, far from the grasp of a monster. _No, she was not his wife and would never consent to be._ Yet, still in his haze of fury, he realized he would like nothing more. But she would never accept his proposal, especially not now! How could he have been deluded into thinking that a hideous corpse could possess anything of beauty?

This revelation enraged him far more than her statement. He let out a loud curse, strode past her, and grabbed the vase next to him, chucking it at the door. The ceramic exploded apart with a cathartic crash. There was a pause as his shoulders rose and fell with exertion before he spun back around to face her. " _Do you truly believe that to be so?_ " he whispered poisonously. Before she knew what was happening, Erik had thrown her over his shoulder and was making his way up the stairs despite her furious protests. Christine kicked, punched, screamed, and scratched to get him to release her but to no avail. "WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?! PUT. ME. DOWN!" she screeched.

All too soon she received her answer. They reached her room and he dropped her onto the bed roughly. She jumped up and tried to follow but he was much too quick. He slammed the door behind him, causing her to collide savagely with the unyielding wood. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" she shrieked in total indignation at discovering the knob wouldn't budge.

"IF IT'S A CELL YOU WANT, _THEN A CELL YOU SHALL HAVE!_ HERE YOU WILL REMAIN UNTIL YOU LEARN TO OBEY MY COMMANDS!" There was a click as the door locked and the sound of retreating footsteps. He was gone and had locked her away like a naughty child.

She did not know how long she spent yelling and pounding on the door, hoping he would return but eventually her howls gave way to sobs. Christine curled up against the door a dried up husk, having spent every drop of moisture in her body. Eventually she fell asleep with sheer exhaustion from her tantrum, not waking until something hard collided with her shoulder. "Dear me! What on earth are you doing laying in front of the door, child?" she heard Mrs. Foley say in surprise. She mumbled something incoherent. "Let's get you to bed or you'll wake up in a sorry state." A strong hand reached down to help her up and she allowed herself to be numbly guided to the bed. "Here. I made you some sandwiches, you must be starved." the kind old woman said, setting a plate on the nightstand.

Without a word of thanks, Christine flipped over and curled into a ball wanting nothing more than to sleep off this horrid nightmare. _Yes_ , tomorrow she would awaken to find it had all been a ghastly dream. But that day never came; for the next morning and the one after she rose to find that her nightmare was real. Each day it was the same routine. She would rouse from slumber and throw a righteous fit until she collapsed back onto the bed. She didn't eat, she barely drank, and by the second day she was almost positive that she was descending into mania. Soon she would trade this prison of _his_ making for that of an institution, she was sure of it!

Meanwhile, Erik spent his days and nights doing little more than angrily scribbling on staff paper and drinking. Though he had bathed, changed, and switched out his mask for the more familiar leather one, he was still a very sorry sight indeed; there was an established layer of stubble on his face and he hadn't bothered to don a jacket, vest, or cravat or tend to his hair. During this time he was infinitely glad that nobody had come to call on him because they would have assuredly been met with a hostile welcome.

He certainly did not sleep properly and only ate a few bites of bread here and there to keep the liquor from turning his stomach, much to the protest of Elsie. Thus a cycle was born: he would drink and compose until his hand cramped and he passed out for scant hours, then he would repeat the whole thing over again. Despite all of this, his endeavors were remarkably successful. A few concertos had been written and now he was close to completing the symphony he had begun the very first night of Christine's imprisonment. Like it or not, raw emotion was the best propellant to nurture the flames of creativity. It was on the second day in the midst of this frenetic writing that he was approached by his meddlesome maid.

"She hasn't touched a bite since she's been up there, you know. The girl's already thin and now she's only skin and bones. What do you plan to do about it?" Mrs. Foley chided, a full tray in her hands. _Christine's evening meal or afternoon tea._ He really didn't know; time no longer held any precedence. Erik slammed his glass on the desk, causing the liquid to slosh out all over the lacquered surface. Mercifully it did not splash onto any of his work. He glared daggers at the intruder before speaking. "You barge in here unannounced to bother me over this?! Kindly remind me for _what_ I employ you..." She almost forgot her station and clapped him roundly on the head. "Begging _your_ pardon, sir, but it was _you_ who chose to lock that poor girl away. You employ me to do the cooking and cleaning. If it's someone you want to force-feed the girl, hire a nanny or a wet nurse!"

Erik was on his feet immediately and she briefly regretted speaking so candidly. He had never punished or laid a hand on her, was that all about to change? Something akin to mild amusement sparkled in his eyes before they turned back to chips of ice.

There was a small pause while he hovered over her, evidently considering his next course of action. "I suppose I shall be forced to rectify your incompetence myself!" he yelled, snatching the food from her and stomping up the stairs. The maid watched her master depart in stunned silence, muttering a prayer under her breath; she had never seen him in such a prolonged foul mood. God help them all should the girl continue to fight him.

Christine lay curled up on her bed, exhausted from the near-constant crying of the past couple of days. She clutched her growling stomach and whimpered. Though she wanted desperately to eat something, her resolve held true; she would wither away before she allowed him to hold her captive! There was a click and the door opened. _Her evening meal_ , she presumed. Was it really that late in the day? Time had ceased to have any meaning to her and life was simply day followed by night. She did not bother to stir. At least, not until she realized the identity of her visitor. "Elsie informs me you have been refusing to eat. Why?" Christine bit back a new wave of tears but did not answer.

"Come, she's made you a hearty broth and some fresh bread." he said, trying his best to keep his tone diplomatic. Although she didn't look at him, she could imagine him standing there with that haughty expression waiting for her to relent; it made her blood boil! _Well, she wouldn't!_ He wasn't going to win this battle!

"I'm not hungry." Unfortunately her body chose that moment to betray her and her empty stomach let out a mighty gurgle at the delicious aroma of the food. She didn't need to see him to predict the smirk that now adorned his lips. _Such a pompous ass!_ "Your body seems to feel otherwise. Come and eat before it grows cold." The casual way in which he addressed her reawakened the dormant anger she had been too weak to express after that morning's fit. Christine sat up with a jolt and stared him dead in the eyes, ignoring her dizziness, "I would sooner starve than be your hostage!" she spat.

He raised a brow at her, "I believe you will reconsider your position once you taste this bread. Elsie's really outdone herself this occasion. It's particularly delectable dipped in the broth." Erik grabbed the steaming peace-offering off the tray and made his way over to where she sat, arms crossed defiantly over her chemise. When she flashed him a look of utter contempt, boldly tilting her chin, he found it wasn't irritation that filled him but _something else_ instead. Even when she was driving him to wit's end, she aroused him. This new fiery side to her personality only stoked his desire. There was no denying that in that moment he wanted nothing more than to have her under him, feel her squirm with pleasure, _make her scream his name, as he ..._

A loud clatter, splash of hot liquid, and breaking of china echoed throughout the room. He looked down to see the bowl, now in several pieces, its hot contents soaking into his shoes and trouser leg. She had slapped it from his hands and now glared at him, daring him to respond; he did not disappoint.

"FINE! IF YOU WISH TO BEHAVE LIKE A SPOILT CHILD, YOU CAN HAVE YOUR WISH AND STARVE!" he roared, sweeping the rest of the tray off the vanity with a gratifying clatter and storming out of the room. The force with which he slammed the door rattled several items off the bookshelf. She ran to it and resumed her assault from earlier, striking the wood with her fists and feet like a hellion. "THEN SO I WILL! DAMN YOU A THOUSAND TIMES OVER, ERIK! _I-I HATE YOU!_ "

Erik froze mid-step, her words had cut him to the core. Did she truly hate him? She had every right to after his treatment of her. He loosed a cry of frustration and furor, punching through one of the paintings on the wall and ripping the rest free of their hangings. Still fuming he returned to his study and found the maid standing there. "It sounds like you were successful." she said scathingly. "GET OUT AND LEAVE ME IN PEACE BEFORE YOU FIND YOURSELF OUT ON THE STREETS!" he bellowed, filling his abandoned glass and downing it in a single gulp. Oh, how he wanted to strangle someone in that moment! Lord, save him from these damnable women!

Shaking her head sadly, the maid did as she was ordered; the sounds of destruction fading as she made her way back to the kitchen. No doubt there would be a hell of a mess to clean tomorrow morning. Not that such occurrences had been a rarity in her two years of service. At least they had lessened with the girl's arrival; the young widow had been a positive influence on the master. Well, until very recently... In the past two days the posh townhouse had come to more closely resembling a war-zone than a residence. She wouldn't be surprised if he wrecked the rest of the damn house tonight and all because he couldn't swallow his pride and have a civil conversation with the woman he loved. _Men!_ They were all the same no matter their age or education; all of them stubborn, irksome boys at the core!

This whole charade had gone on quite long enough! Both her master and the girl were acting like quarreling children. If she did not intervene soon, she would be tempted to turn them over her knee and take the wooden spoon to their rears. She let out a low chuckle. Somehow the image of the great, blustering master on the receiving end of a sound spanking entertained her beyond belief. But, she was getting on in years and this action, no matter how satisfying, would prove too much of a challenge. Instead she came up with a better plan, one that she would put into motion that very evening assuming he remained as predictable as he had the past two nights. "God in Heaven, those two couldn't be more suited for each other if she was created from his rib just as Eve was fashioned!" she grumbled while scrubbing the counters.

* * *

 **So... that went well. :/**

 **Kudos to Christine for standing up to him! Who would have thought she had it in her?**

 **Something tells me this whole thing is FAR from over, though.**

 **I wonder what Mrs. Foley's plan is!**

 **Rate and Review?**


	32. The Maid's Plan

**PhantomFan01: Yup, scary Erik has definitely returned. Let's hope it's not for too long. I don't think she's in danger of dying from neglect. I have a feeling he will relent before that ever happens.**

 **Yay, we get to find out Mrs. Foley's plan! This chapter is a little shorter than the rest but I'm fairly happy with it. Like I said before, I had one HUGE chapter (over 10,000 words) and I split it into four. It was ready days ago but I was holding off posting it in hopes of getting more reviews, oh well.  
**

 **Just a reminder, the story is rated M for a reason. ;)**

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Elsie quietly bade her time, waiting until Erik had drank himself into a stupor. Once she was sure he was out for the next few hours, she made her way up to Christine's bedroom with a new tray. The room was devoid of all light and the thin sliver cast by the illuminated hallway did little to pierce the thick blackness. She tutted sympathetically; if the girl didn't starve herself, she would surely wither away from lack of light like a plant shut in a dark cupboard. Every morning the maid would open the curtains only to find them drawn by luncheon. It was clear she wished to wallow in her misery and darkness suited this purpose. Mrs. Foley shook her head; she had never put much stock in fate but even to a nonbeliever it was undeniable that the girl and her master were destined for one another. _After all, wherever else would he find a woman who could sulk and bluster as well as he?_

Good thing the little lady's maid was away for the weekend visiting her parents; she would have surely fled without handing in her notice if she had witnessed the tantrums on either side. "I've brought you some more food, dearie. I know you've not got much of an appetite but at least have some water." she said gently, placing it just inside the door. She left hastily afterwards, not wanting to be _anywhere_ near the house or _him_ when he got wind of her treachery. All she could do was hope that the girl would discover the tray before her master did and take the opportunity given to her.

It had been well over an hour since the meal was delivered, still Christine lay waiting to see if it was some sort of trap or test. Had Erik ordered Mrs. Foley to bring more food only to hide on the other side of the door listening for signs of capitulation? When she could stand it no longer, she made her way to where it rested and felt mild accomplishment at having navigated the darkness. Two days in such conditions had made her senses keener and she wondered how long it had taken his eyes to become so adept. _Days? Months? Years?_

Though she was still too stubborn to eat, she wasn't going to deny herself a drink. A cool glass of water sounded heavenly! Much better than the stale, tepid liquid in her pitcher. She groped along the surface of the tray and located her quarry almost immediately. Her fingers had brushed over something strange in their quest but she put it out of mind until the last divine drop had slid down her throat. With her thirst quenched, her curiosity was renewed. Setting the empty glass down, she dragged her hand through some sort of stew, across a neatly folded napkin, and over cutlery before it came to rest on... " _A key._ " she whispered.

Apparently Mrs. Foley had taken pity on her and slipped her the key. Good, at least someone was on her side. However, her celebration was short-lived. _This could be her only chance to escape_. She had no clue where _he_ was but she was not going to waste time to dressing or packing. Despite her burgeoning familiarity in darkness, she doubted her ability to perform these tasks quickly and quietly. Lighting a candle or lantern of any kind was out of the question; so, slowly feeling her way to the wardrobe and throwing a cloak over her shoulders for modesty, she grabbed the newfound treasure and inserted it into the lock. There was a tick of breathless anticipation as she turned it methodically and was rewarded with a soft click.

Silent as the grave, she made her way downstairs and past his study. She let out a small exhale of relief at not being discovered. The marble was cool against her feet and she wished she had donned something sturdier than slippers. Oh well, there was no time for such things now. Her discomfort was a simple afterthought upon reaching the foyer. Freedom was so close, she could practically taste it! Only a few more steps _and..._

"Just where do you think you're going at this hour?" Christine froze instantly, the blood in her veins turning to ice. She could sense how near he was, now she stood no chance of escape. Without further thought, she spun around wildly, brandishing the knife she had thoughtfully spirited from her tray just in case. It was a natural reaction; the last attempts of an animal cornered by a predator at flight. "I'm leaving, Erik. Stay back! I may hate you, but I don't wish to hurt you." Erik reflexively moved away, but his actions were slowed and lacked their normal graceful fluidity. He swayed slightly, almost imperceptibly, in compensation for the speed of his movements. Clearly he was drunk.

Once again her words sliced him deeper than any blade. Despite his intoxication, his mind was unaffected and he registered everything from the weapon in her hand to the things she had said. "Do you really think you could?" he inquired softly. Christine could not decipher whether it was spoken as a challenge or curiosity.

"If you try to force me back into that cage, I have no idea of what I'd be capable." _A cage!_ Those two words hung in the air like a thick, dank musk, penetrating his mind and unraveling long-furled past horrors. They proved to be his undoing and a strangled, inhuman howl escaped his lips. In his fierce desire to protect her, he had reverted back to his old ways and become that curséd monster from the opera. _Christ, he was no better than that brute Javert!_ The haunting realization was swift enough to knock his legs out from under him. Slowly, he prostrated himself before her and held his arms out, regarding them with a powerful disgust. "I-I— _O_ _h God,_ I am so sorry... s _o very sorry!_ Please forgive me! _Oh,_ _Christine..._ " he pleaded weakly, his head hung in shame.

She eyed the scene in front of her suspiciously. Could it be a ruse? No, the compunctious tears note of anguish in his beautiful voice left no room for deception. Suddenly he seized the hand that held the knife by the wrist and brought it towards him, his grip soft but strong as iron. Sheer terror overtook her; all she could do was watch as Erik guided the blade until the tip kissed his chest, resting directly where his heart lay like a morbid arrow pointing to his mortality. Her fear bound her in place; she could not move, speak, or even weep.

Christine observed the image in front of her through a lens of detachment, it felt as though she was an audience member in a play. Any second now, the curtain would fall or the scene would change but, neither happened. Instead, his eyes rose to meet hers and what she saw in them broke the spell of dissolution; they were still ablaze with wild, unchecked anger, pain, and madness but now held an element of cold, unwavering determination. Determination _to..._

" _What are you doing?!_ " she cried frantically, praying that she had misinterpreted his intentions. _She hadn't._ "Go ahead. I will accept my fate and not resist should you wish to dispatch me. Remember to strike with force, it is not as easy to land a killing blow as one might think. This knife will be useless against bone, so slip the blade between the third and fourth ribs to pierce the heart." Erik directed her hand downward and over, his eye contact never vacillating. "Alternatively you can enter here, underneath the _cavea_ _thoracis_ and below the sternum. Stab upwards through the liver and diaphragm, even if you do not reach the heart or lungs it is still a mortal wound... It will be a bloody business but if you wish to minimize such, go through the eye and directly into the brain; it's the quickest demise out of the aforementioned options." His grasp slackened slightly and he beheld her almost tenderly. "I accept my punishment and hope to obtain remission for my crimes. I love you, Christine. _Now_ and _always..._ " He released her and let his arms fall. There was a clatter of metal hitting something solid and both of them looked down at the knife resting on the marble. Christine had dropped it in absolute horror upon realizing he was completely serious. The blasé manner in which he instructed her how to end a life was disturbing in of itself but the fact that it was his _own_ life was unendurable.

"Father in Heaven! _Why would I..._ " she couldn't even bring herself to say the word; it was too dreadful to even fathom, let alone speak. Erik averted his gaze dejectedly, "It is no more than I deserve for treating you like an animal, for _c-caging_ you, _for ... making you hate me._ I could survive if you were to leave me but I cannot subsist knowing you hate me; knowing that somewhere you are cursing my name and—" Now she bemoaned her previous declaration more than she thought possible. Why hadn't she considered the effect it might have on a fragile soul like him? It was more than she could take. "Stop!" she interjected boldly, "I-I don't hate you, Erik. I could _never_ hate you. My words were spoken out of anger and foolishness... I-I d-didn't mean them and I'm sorry for ever uttering them."

His shoulders slumped brokenly. " _Why?_ You have ample reason to despise me and for that you have my imperishable contrition. I was sim— _simply_ trying to protect you. When I arrived home to find you missing, I-I went mad with worry... I was _so_ afraid, Christine. _So afraid_ that something had happened to you and—" Her choked wail drowned out his voice, as she too dropped onto her knees and threw her arms around his neck. He allowed her to cry on his shoulder for a time, arms stiffly at his sides like a statue, before pulling away. " _Go._ You are free to leave, I will not stop you. All I ask is that you send word when you have reached your destination safely, wherever that may be. I will not track you down, but I can—cannot live in uncertainty." he said miserably, no longer bothering to stem the flow of tears.

Before he could withdraw further, she wrapped her arms around him once more. Though they still had a great deal to discuss, his words were enough to convince her that his reaction, misguided as it was, had not been out of possessiveness or jealousy. It was clear he would go to any length to protect her, even if that meant keeping her under lock and key. Strangely, she found it made her love him even more. Lord, she _was_ going mad, there was no refuting it. "Enough of that, Erik! I'm not going anywhere. Unless you no longer want me here?"

" _God, no!_ I would sooner open my veins than willingly send you from my sight!" he exclaimed, embracing her fiercely. "Good, then let's go to bed and put all of this aside for tonight. Tomorrow is another day and I think we both need rest before we revisit all that's happened."

Erik moved back to behold her in absolute wonder. What had he done to deserve the angel before him? Not five minutes earlier, he had expected her to run and never look back, to curse him for an eternity, to loathe him till the rapture, but here she was extending an olive branch. She was a beautiful enigma and never ceased to amaze him. "I... _truly?_ " he questioned in disbelief. She managed a small smile, " _Yes!_ Now, let's get to bed before I change my mind. Besides I need the time to think up a way for you to atone, one that does _not_ involve a weapon of any kind." she joked feebly. _Incredible!_ _She was offering him a chance for redemption._ In that moment, he knew he would do anything she asked of him, no matter how humiliating.

He methodically rose to his feet, scooping her up as he did. "May I carry you? There is broken glass about, and I do not want you to injure yourself." To his infinite relief and awe, she did not scream to be put down. "That is the _least_ you can do..." she countered cheekily as he started up the stairs.

When he turned down the hall in the direction of her room, she voiced her disapproval. "I won't get any peace in there after being trapped for two days." He paused guiltily at the mention of her imprisonment, "There are several more guest rooms but I am unsure if they are fit for company; I do not entertain very often as you know. I can check and change the linens. That should do for one night until Elsie comes in, then we can see to comforts past a warm bed." Christine shook her head. It was baffling how the simplest insinuations sometimes eluded him. "It's fine, please don't go through all that trouble on my account. I don't need a guest room, yours will do nicely." Erik very nearly dropped her right then and wondered if she had felt the tremor that shot through his body. She had a compelling point, he couldn't fault her. It was late and she probably didn't want to wait for him to ready another room. Besides, it wasn't like she had implied wanting to do anything more than sleep. _Not that he could rebuff her if she did..._

Still he was floored by her request... no, _order_. She wanted to share a bed with him after everything? Or, perhaps she just wanted his bed and expected him to sleep in the chair or downstairs in his study. Yes, maybe the latter option was a better idea, wasn't it? Downstairs there would be no chance of any untoward advances on his part. On the other hand, shouldn't he be readily available to see to her needs and offer consolation for the nightmares she was certain to have after the trauma? This internal debate continued even after they had reached his room and he set her back on her own feet. Whether or not she simply wished to sleep in his bed alone or insisted upon his presence, tonight would be hell for him. "Erik?" she asked looking at him queerly. "Yes?" Was she going to demand he stay or banish him from his own room?

"Do you have any food?" She wrung her hands sheepishly and he chuckled. "I believe I have a biscuit jar around here somewhere..." He walked off to the corner of the room and returned with a full container. "Here, eat as many as you'd like while I prepare for bed." She muttered her thanks and began heartily stuffing her mouth with the crumbly baked goods, disregarding proper manners.

By the time he had cleaned his teeth, removed his socks and shoes, and splashed some chastening water on his face, Christine was already in sitting in bed next to the now empty jar. She looked so alluring, resting in her chemise with a look of contentment that he considered going to her and expressing his remorse fully. Begrudgingly he bit back the urge and took his place in the large leather chair, making sure it was facing the fireplace. It was hard enough to sleep in the same room, but if he was looking at her, it would be impossible to remain distanced for long. "What are you doing? Why aren't you coming to bed?"

"I had intended on sleeping here and giving you the bed." he answered truthfully. "Nonsense, I won't deprive you of something that belongs to you. Please, just come to bed, I'm not in the mood to argue or beg." Oh, but he _wanted_ her to beg; beg him to kiss her, to caress her, to hold her, to make her his forever; _beg him not to stop as he..._ Erik clenched his jaw, trying to keep his lustful fantasies at bay, and doused the lights, all the while growing more nervous. At last he steeled himself enough to slide into bed, albeit on top of the coverlet. The mattress shifted as she moved closer and he held his breath. "Why are you still in your day clothes? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in pajamas?" _Sweet girl_ , she had no idea how much she tempted him. "I am comfortable enough in these." he lied.

"Oh, all right. I have something else I want to ask. Earlier when you said that you were afraid something had happened to me and that you were trying to protect me, why didn't you just tell me that in the first place? You didn't need to explain anything in depth, but I think I'm entitled to some information. If you had just given me a reason, I would have listened." She nestled under his arm and laid her head on his chest, looking up into his eyes questioningly. He doubted she could see him but he could see her clearly.

Her statement struck him to the core and threatened to break him. How could he begin to answer for his egregious behavior? Why had he been the author of his own misfortune yet again? Silence descended upon the pair while he tried to formulate a suitable reply. "You are correct, you're entitled to that and so much more... There is nothing I can say to assuage the foolishness with which I acted. I _just..._ If any harm were to befall you, I could not carry on living. _T-that day_ ... that day when your ship foundered and I pulled you from the water; when you laid there motionless on the sand, when I believed your life beyond recall— I've never been so utterly terrified. Once I believed myself incapable of feeling fear, believed the violence in my past had numbed me to it. But when I saw you so close to leaving me for good, I could think of nothing but joining you there. If you _hadn't..._ I-I do not know what I would have done and the uncertainty still haunts me. Oh, Christine I love you far too much to risk losing you ever again."

Without warning, Christine pulled him on top of her and into a deep kiss; his response was autonomic, completely out of his control. There was no hope for him now... " _I love you too._ " she exhaled. He let his mouth wander over her jawline, ears, and down her neck to her collarbone. _Christ in Heaven how he wanted this!_ Her lips tasted of confections and her skin was the sweetest blend of rose water and lavender. " _Erik..._ " This was it, she was going to tell him to stop. He had been a fool to ever imagine that she would desire him at all, _especially_ after everything he put her through the past two days. However, what she said next totally caught him out. "I w-want you to... _to make love to me._ " His heart ceased and silence whooshed all around, causing an unbearable ringing within his ears. _He must have died._ There was no other explanation. This was solely a test of some kind, set forth to judge him worthy of Heaven or Hell, of that he was unequivocally certain. A test he would most likely fail.

It hit him like a ton of bricks and he thought he misheard until he felt her attack the buttons on his shirt. He let out a groan as her hands slid over his torso, flesh against flesh. _Pure torture._ Made all the more so by her seriousness and his fumbling comprehension that this was neither dream nor jest. " _Please..._ " Her barely audible whisper resounded throughout the room, joining the shrill buzzing of his eardrums in a clangorous cacophony. His lungs followed the example of the muscle in his chest, hitching abruptly with the simplicity of a single, scarcely discernible word. She wanted him, _actually wanted him._

There was no way he could refuse, even if he had a mind to; no, things had been _much_ too far-gone for a while now. His body had long-since disregarded his previous apprehension and was throbbing, begging for release. For _her_. It was all he could do to continue to cover her in short, agonizing kisses. If he attempted anything further, he would evaporate into nothingness. He relished in her sighs and the tingling of her soft fingers gliding over the skin on his shoulders and back.

Coherent vestiges of thought had abandoned him in the second her lips had found his and now the only thing that guided him was instinct. His mouth and hands exploring, mapping her exquisite territory of their own accord. The former had located and christened the peak of her breast with eager nips and kisses, uncaring whether or not the thin fabric of her chemise stood in the way. Later, he could begin his expedition anew without such hindrances; there was plenty of time for such things. _Time._ He had waited long enough and fully intended to take his now. Meanwhile, his hand journeyed slowly along a road of satin, a weary traveller in search of a Holy Well; the clarity of nails biting into his flesh and the low shudder that resonated throughout her body announced his quarry had been discovered.

With slow, deliberate strokes the weary voyagers set about purifying themselves in the sweet moisture of the river pooling at the center of her heat. Patiently they traversed her most intimate secrets: gliding, caressing, _worshipping._ Erik silently marvelled in the wondrous sounds and sensations elicited by his touch, for it was _his_ name echoed in her sweet sighs. He wanted to profess his utter devotion, sing a thousand praises to the goddess before him but his ability to speak dissolved with each new mewl and moan.

He felt it then; timid at first, barely a brush of skin. When he finally did notice, he was already ensnared. Somehow her hands, undoubtedly propelled by some strange mischief, had found their way into his trousers. It was hopeless and he was helpless, a slave to her touches. " _God..._ " his voice returned at once, a reflection of the straining in his drawers. _Time._ Yes, it was rapidly slipping away from him. There was one option left and he took it. Erik's own hand became more insistent, shedding previous notions of gentleness in a race to beat out his own inevitable end.

Christine's torture stopped and her nails dug into his back once more. _Good,_ a reprieve for him to focus on his task. His abnormally dexterous fingers made short work of it. At last, his reward! She let out a wail as her every nerve ending fired into a brilliant burst of potent energy. Rather than retracting, he kept up his flurry of kisses while he rode out each and every aftershock of her pleasure to its last. Gradually her grip on him slackened, became heavier, and her breath slowed to regularity. Erik finally withdrew and looked up to see her eyes shut with contentment, a small residue of a smile etched on her perfect mouth. _Sleeping._ He settled into a more dignified position, encircling her arms he hoped promised safety and security from now until the end of days. The dull ache of unfulfillment bloomed outwards from his loins but he ignored it. For now it would do to simply hold her. Besides, he had endured far worse in his lifetime. Not even libido's basal urge could tear him away from his cherished observation of her peacefully resting form.

"Lord only knows why you choose to remain by my side after all that I've done to you, my darling; but, I am deeply indebted to a higher power, that much is clear." he mused quietly, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before he too gave in to slumber.

* * *

 **Hah, Mrs. Foley to the rescue with the key.**

 **Where do you think Christine was planning on going?**

 **Things got a little scary for a second there... So how's that for raw emotion?**

 **But, everything is always better with a little make-up sex, right? Or at least... something close to it.  
**

 **I wonder how that little talk will go tomorrow.**

 **Remember to rate and review!**


	33. Revelations

**First off, sorry for the delay in posting! This chapter was sort of difficult to write because I wanted some sort of buffer between the last chapter and the upcoming opera but there are some HUGE plot points ahead and I didn't want to detract from them with anything super noteworthy happening. Needless to say, I decided to bring us to the night _before_ the opera because I thought it would be a good point from which to continue the story without jumping straight into the performance. Other than that hardship I took a two-week course in Renaissance painting techniques and picked Leonardo da Vinci's _Lady With An Ermine_ to recreate, so for a moment there all of my effort was dedicated to that class and my work. And as soon as class ended I had to jump right into work. I'm lifeguarding again this summer and they have me working 8 or 9 hour shifts, which doesn't allow for much time for writing or anything really. **

**At any rate, my work schedule probably won't let up but I _do_ have a lot of the material for future chapters written so updates shouldn't suffer too much. **

**As usual, thank you so much for your reviews! It makes me feel appreciated.**

 **PhantomFan01: I am too! I would hate for them to part on such bad terms or at all. I don't think she had any idea where she was going, but probably to find Annabelle since she knew where her friend lived and any cab driver she hailed would likely be familiar with the nobility's London homes.**

 **iris2312: Yes, one step closer but still soooo far away. I thought the guy was supposed to be the one that falls asleep early, oh well. ;) I'm glad it resolved itself in the end, but as you said the, 'tides will turn' and they are getting ready to do _just_ that. I'll leave that bit ambiguous, haha. **

* * *

The next two weeks went by at a frightening pace. All too soon the opening night of _La Traviata_ was looming before them, an almost palpable fact. In just a single night's time, Christine would take the stage with her Angel once again, unhindered by smoke screens and deceptions, and she could scarcely dread it more. As she returned home from another gruelling rehearsal, she could hardly believe that a scant month ago this same knowledge had filled her with a rampant, untamable jubilation. But, gone were those days, metamorphosed into dust and sorrow.

Presently even thoughts of him caused a wave of bitter melancholy to rise up within her. Where had it all gone so terribly wrong? If she had to pinpoint an exact moment, she would have said it started after their fight and the subsequent evening when all sins were forgiven; that night she had asked—no, _begged_ —him to make love to her. Holy Father, had she really used _those_ words? Maybe he was repulsed by the brazen vulgarity with which she requested such intimacy. After that lovely night he had again donned his ghostly mantle and she had barely seen hide or hair of him since. Without any other explanation for his scarcity, Christine unavoidably begun to blame herself. Perhaps he had realized what a petulant and disobedient child she remained at the core and wished to distance himself; a child who spoke of and demanded things she didn't understand.

Now, sitting in the music room reading _Pride and Prejudice_ for the second time in a fortnight, she had regressed to the meek, flighty chorus girl from the Opera Populaire; the very same one that buckled rather than flourished under the pressure of the limelight.

At half past eight she could take no more and slammed the book shut, resolving to turn in for the night. She would have liked to accord the blame to her nerves or exhaustion but in actuality her reasoning was far more absurd and petty: _she was jealous of Elizabeth Bennet._ _Actually_ envious of a fictional character. Sadder yet, she was not upset about Elizabeth's happy ending but instead over the character's ability to live a perfectly satisfying existence without Mr. Darcy. Why couldn't she be that strong? Instead she was a delicate bloom that withered in love's absence. _I_ _'m truly a piteous creature to have been reduced to this_ , she thought in irritation while performing her nightly ablutions.

 _A fortnight!_ Two long weeks had passed fleeting like water through his hands. How had time flown that quickly? Even when he lived below ground, he could not recall when time had sped on with such ferocity. It seemed an eternity had gone by since that night Christine escaped; that blesséd night she absolved him, reaffirmed her love for him, and asked him to …

Erik swore and hastily attempted to shift his focus on the interior of the handsome brougham cab and the equally sleek, comely beasts that pulled it along. He _couldn't_ afford to think about _her_ ; _about undressing her, trailing kisses down her spine, the velvet caress of her skin under his eager fingers, listening to his name leave her lips in a rush of sweet ecstasy as he …_ No! Such thoughts were not welcome forthwith. Since then he cursed, cherished, and feared that night a thousand times over and since then elected to put all his effort into his planned proposal. Maybe then he could have some semblance of solace from his tortured dreams. It was a thin, unsteady hope but, hope, it was still.

Days were spent mulling it over, scores of ideas cast aside acting as filler for the wastebasket. Eventually, in his sleepless frustration, he turned to composing to clutch at the slipping fringes of his sanity. _That_ was when he decided. He would give her a symphony unlike any other, a symphony on par with _Don Juan_. Withholding disaster, it would be grand, perfection-incarnate; he would be sure of that. While the idea was far from a novel one—nearly every composer had dedicated a symphony to a lover or treasured friend at some point in their lifetime—he would make the world forget this fact and worship his music.

Deep within his mind he believed the grander the overture, the greater likelihood she would accept. Briefly he wondered how the _boy_ had gone about it. _He probably simply asked for her hand, it's not like a handsome suitor such as he would have need for pomp or frivolity,_ answered a poisonous voice he recognized as self-loathing. For the umpteenth time, he savagely resented his once rival's ability to secure the world with a dapper smile and respected, ancient name. But not him; _not Erik._ He, a monster masquerading in a gentleman's bespoke suit, would be expected to separate the Earth from The Heavens just as Atlas had done in exchange for any attention from a woman. Yet here he was rudely healthy while her golden-haired knight was fodder for the seabed. _Amusing how the tables turn_ , he thought smugly.

True, a symphony was far from the grandiose vision he had originally cultivated. It would be far more bombastic to erect a monument in her name, raise a temple to her beauty, or sow a magnificent garden in her honor, but not one of these prospects seemed fitting nor inspired in the least. In fact, they were quickly regarded as gaudy and trite. Music, withal, was what first united them; the first link forged in a chain. Music was the empyrean force that initially bound the soul of a wretched, young angel to a cynical, damned demon; a silvery glimpse of salvation was promised within the sweet notes of her immature voice. _She_ , Christine, had saved him and breathed new vigor into his tired shell, young in years but aged a hundred-fold in regret and torment.

From the beginning it was a passion shared on a cellular level flowing through each of their veins in harmony. Thusly, it was only fitting that music should be the foundation on which the next chapter of their togetherness was built. One week prior he had received the long-awaited telegram from Cartier announcing that the ring would be ready sometime within the next fortnight. Barely a week remained for him to make all the necessary preparations and he silently begrudged the upcoming opera and ridiculous regatta for siphoning off his precious time like hungry ticks. Previously he had considered proposing on the opening night of the opera but quickly scrapped that notion after recalling the travesty on which _Don Juan_ had concluded.

No, his current designs were far superior and he was thankful for the extra cushion afforded by Cartier's announcement; Erik could always work wonders with additional time. And _wondr_ _ous_ this symphony would be, that was an irrefutable certainty; much like Newton's law of universal gravitation or the rising and setting of the sun. Not only would he write the music but he would also fill the soloist position; after all, only the creator could do his composition justice. Ironically Christine had become the sole obstacle to his schemes when he harkened back to the accusations of betrayal slung at him following his last performance and original composition. But, that had been owing to its clandestine aura.

Fortunately, this concert would not necessitate the same secrecy. It would instead be cleverly hidden behind the guise of a spectacular finale to celebrate the end of The Season. He would schedule the program during the weekend preceding the Glorious Twelfth, when England's nobility would migrate from London to their country estates for the beginning of the shoot. When all was fleshed out, everything fell into place quite neatly; not for the first time Erik touted his own brilliance. Christine would simply see it as a marvellous denouement to a successful opening season for the Royal Albert Hall.

Naturally, plans of this magnitude would require confiding the truth to someone. Erik grimaced, it still went against his nature to willingly reveal matters he considered personal. However, there were many variables to be handled and he could not see to all of them, try as though he might. Reginald or John seemed the most logical choices, both men had a hand in the concert hall and each could make his own valuable contribution, but he supposed the blasted daroga should be made privy as well; the man's insatiable curiosity was damnable at the best of times and it wouldn't do to have the Persian arouse any suspicion with his meddling. Then he would be forced to kill the man and that would pose _such_ an inconvenience. As for young Annabelle, she most assuredly could not be trusted with sensitive information and William was loyal but bent too easily to his sister's whims.

 _So that's it settled then,_ he mused. John, Reginald, and the daroga would know the _real_ purpose of The Season's closing concert and each of them would need to be brought into the fold sooner rather than later. He sighed dejectedly at this knowledge; hopefully he could rein in his temper long enough to complete his task. Oh well, Christine was more than worth this hindrance. In fact, he would broach the uncomfortable topic with the irksome Persian at their meeting that very evening.

Apparently Nadir had finally uncovered some useful information concerning the mystery that had hung thick and fetid in the late summer air. _It was about time._ Still, Erik couldn't help his instinctive annoyance that this new intelligence hadn't arrived earlier or on any day apart from the eve of _La Traviata's_ premiere. Perhaps the motives of the mysterious man and the telegram would at last come to light. Despite there having been no further contact or sightings, he was far too shrewd to relax his defenses completely; _not after Javert._ And, those who knew him could never accuse him with making the same mistake twice. Always the eerie situation was at the back of his mind, taunting him.

Although, he _did_ renege on his previous oath to not leave Christine's side until all was discovered and any threats succinctly addressed. To his credit, the daroga had aided in persuading him to leave her unguarded. Well, rather he had lent his manservant, Darius, to serve in the capacity of sentinel; something for which he was grateful, after her passionate plea that night and his near-ascension, he severely doubted his self-control. He would frequently reassure himself through gritted teeth that he could have her every freckle, curl, dimple, and patch of silken skin without hesitation once they had taken vows and it was _this_ thought that kept him from madness.

He only hoped whatever the lead was, it wouldn't prove a waste of his time as the previous bit had been. If it turned out to be so, Erik decided he would not be forgiving. While he had never harmed the daroga intentionally, there was certainly a first time for everything; he could hardly be blamed for any adverse reactions on his part should the new information yield nothing more tangible than smoke.

After all, it was the night before the opera opened and in spite of his frenzied secret objective and fears, _nothing_ would keep him from spending it with Christine. Erik had meticulously arranged his schedule to allow for this very thing; the meeting with the Persian would merely be a small, inconsequential delay. _And for his sake, it had better be a worthwhile one,_ added a voice in his head. The man deserved a more dignified death than a crudely snapped neck, but such would provide the quickest end should his friend displease. This solution lingered in his mind as he knocked on the door to the humble flat.

Erik was mildly surprised when the door slowly opened to reveal a lumpy, bedraggled middle-aged woman, though he did not give any indication of such; nor did he visibly acknowledge the way her dull eyes widened when she shrank in his presence. Thank God he had worn his special mask, for had he been wearing a leather one, she would have surely expired on the spot. "H-hello? C-can I help you?" she asked, her voice shrill.

"I have business with Monsieur Khan." he stated flatly. Luckily he was spared any further interaction by Nadir's boisterous invitation to join him in the parlor. Without another word, he slipped past the ragged woman and into the comfortable interior. "Ah, sit please and let's get down to it, my friend. I doubt you wish to while away your evening here." The Persian then tinkled the bell resting on the table and the haggard maid appeared instantly like a mangy dog awaiting its master's orders. "Bring us some tea and see to it that we are not disturbed. And be quick about it, you don't earn wages for gawking at my guests, woman!" he snapped.

"Mrs. Roberts is a gossipy sort, but she means well and keeps house decently." the man went on to explain after the requested tea had been brought round. The situation rang odd, in all the years he had known the Persian, the latter had never respected his wishes to keep their interactions brief. Why start now? The answer materialized, unfurling tantalizingly in front of him in perfect synchronization with the amusement that spread across his face.

"Worry not, daroga, I will endeavor to be gone before your _companion_ arrives." Erik reassured glibly.

Nadir flashed him a look of ignorance, but it was obviously feigned. Talented actor and liar as though he was in the eyes of others, he could never hope to dupe Erik; to the younger man he had invariably been an open book. Still, he tried to maintain the pathetic façade of repudiation. "Whatever are you on about, Erik?" he posited, a hint of injury veiled in his words.

The masked man remained taciturn, unfazed; he so enjoyed these little games, especially at the expense of his friend. There were few things in life that afforded the same heady sense of satisfaction as vexing the Persian. "Come, why do you choose to play coy now when you've always been _unabashed_ to the point of indecency in the past? Could it be advanced age has imbued you with a capacity for modesty?" A scowl flitted across Nadir's features, it was gone in a split second and likely would have escaped even the most acute man but he was dealing with Erik's unparalleled acumen. He never stood a chance and the triumphant smirk of the latter announced that he had given himself away.

Another frown creased his already careworn face. "Fine. Yes, if you _must_ know I am expecting a ... _someone_ later this evening. Why? Does this knowledge offend you?" To his surprise, the smirk evolved into a complacent grin. "Not in the least! On the contrary actually, I find it most delectating. It means that I might decamp before tomorrow's show; you _do_ have a tendency to prattle on. I should appreciate the lady's name and address, I believe the finest flowers and chocolates are in order by way of thanks."

"You did not have to come if you find my company so insufferable, you know." came the waspish reply. "Nonsense! You have your uses, daroga." Nadir rolled his eyes. "Oh what a unprecedented honor to exist purely for your entertainment, O Shadow of God!" he finished sardonically. His mockery of the Shah's sobriquet earned him a chuckle and added to his ire. "No, not _solely_ for the sake of enjoyment, I also find you... _moderately_ trustworthy as well. Which is why I am choosing to divulge my plans regarding Christine—"

"You are going to propose?! Allah, that is wonderful news! This calls for celebration, I will have the maid fetch the bottle of brandy I've been saving and—"

"That will be quite unnecessary; perhaps another time. At any rate, I travelled here to discuss business and I recall— _all too clearly,_ I might add—what happened the last time we imbibed together; I wasn't rid of you until nearly midnight." Erik interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. "Very well. Far be it for me to offer a friend congratulations on such a momentous occasion. I hope you're aware of just how difficult you are sometimes." he grumbled, removing his fingers from the bell he had seized in his excitement.

Following Erik's extrapolation on the subject of the impending proposal, the Persian's mood brightened considerably. _Only Erik could contrive something so grand_ , he thought in captivation. Ever since the beginning of his tumultuous relationship with his masked friend, he had perceived a limitless, frightening capacity for emotion despite the young man's vehement repression of such _human_ weakness. Once he had even feared what would unfold if the composer ever experienced love; back then he had been certain it would result in dangerous repercussions but to see that all had culminated so incredibly well helped to restore much of the faith he had lost over the years.

 _It was a damn shame he was about to put a damper on things!_ Nadir swallowed a gulp of tea and very nearly wretched; the liquid he had already consumed sat rancid, stagnant and heavy as lead in his gut. He truly loathed himself for what he was about to do but he had tarried for quite long enough. _It needed to be done._ Placing his saucer back on the tray, he sucked in a heavy breath. "While I am immensely pleased for you and Christine, I'm sure you've realized I did not summon you simply for the sake of conversation..." Erik arched a brow quizzically. "Yes, what is this earth-shattering news you have for me, daroga?" _Well, now or never_ , something in his mind affirmed.

"As you already know, we managed to locate the urchin who was responsible for posting the telegram; the boy was _not_ easy to find, mind you. At any rate, he confirmed that the man who recruited him was the very same fellow who had been tailing you; we also learnt that the boy met him in a small inn and figured he was a guest. However when we combed the inn's registry and there was no record of a guest matching that description. We assumed we had reached another dead end but by some stroke of divine luck the innkeeper's daughter overheard our inquiry and told us a _very_ interesting tale. Apparently she is acquainted with a young housemaid who was familiar with our mysterious man. Naturally we tracked down the aforementioned maid. She serves in a rented house on the outskirts of the city and remembers him only because of the dour elderly woman in his company; the girl says the two of them would get into heated discussion frequently and several times she swore they were 'plotting.' After looking over the house and the contract, we found it rented to one, Gaspard Caderousse but when we investigated further we found—"

"... that it was an alias and thusly yielded naught." Erik finished astutely. The look he received was comical. "Yes. How did you guess?" Nadir asked, though he wasn't truly sure why he bothered anymore. "Have you ever read Dumas?" He shook his head, "I cannot say I have. I prefer Balzac, Voltaire, and Milton; the way I see it I've had an abundance of adventure in my lifetime and have no cause to read about those of another." His reply resulted in a snicker. "That is wise on your part, daroga. I heard a de trop amount of excitement can cause heart failure in a man of your age."

"Mind your words, Erik. I am not too far into my dotage to toss you out on your ear! Anyways, what does fiction have to do with our _very_ real predicament?" Erik shrugged, "You could _try_ , however your odds of success would be nil. Furthermore, your question is redundant in of itself. The name of our enigmatic tormentor appertains wholly to fiction because _fiction_ it is; Gaspard Caderousse is a character in Dumas's, _The Count of Monte Cristo_. Does this conclude the extent of what you've uncovered in nearly a month of investigation?"

All of Erik's usual haughtiness filled the air succeeding his statement. Was there even any use to being annoyed by such predictability? _Probably not_ , he figured. "No, of course not. If you had let me finish, you would now know that I called upon some of my Parisian contacts to expose the true identity of Monsieur 'Caderousse' and found, after much digging, that the name is an alias used by one of France's premier private investigators; a one, Benoit Poincare."

"You chose your moment well, daroga. There is clearly not time enough to _settle_ the matter of the meddlesome fool tonight nor will there be tomorrow. Though I cannot promise that I will not _formally_ introduce myself to this Poincare chap once my schedule allows." The iciness of his friend's tone left no room for speculation where motives were concerned. "You cannot lapse back into all that, not when you've come so far into the light. Were something unfortunate to befall Mr. Poincare, it would not be such a stretch to connect it all back to you. Besides, where would that leave Christine?"

 _That did it._ The bloody Persian had sprung one of his infamous guilt traps and caught him squarely. _Damn him_ _!_ "Oh, come off it you great dolt! Despite your fear regarding my blood-lust and pathetic, bordering on injurious, lack of confidence in my rationality, the investigator is in no danger. You would be an imbecile indeed to believe for a moment that I would jeopardize my happiness yet again, especially with the prospect of a lifetime spent with _her_ within my grasp. That being said, I have no desire to involve myself with this man past bribing him to let the trail remain cold. If there is one thing I've learnt, it's that every man has his price; I do not believe this Poincare to be any exception. Now, tell me, have you uncovered a reason I am so sought after?" There was a trace of beguilement in his question.

Another frown. This was where things had ceased to make sense and he hoped the masked man could shed some light on the strange business. "I sent a telegram to his office posing as a potential client and was met with refusal. Apparently Poincare is no longer accepting any new cases because there has been a major crack in the one he had held open for ten years, his only unsolved inquiry in an otherwise impressive resumé; a crack which brought him to London in pursuit of _you_. His secretary said as of recently, he even relocated to a provincial town somewhere in Normandy to be closer to his work."

Erik's usual arrogance promptly deflated and his previously steepled hands separated like the crumbling façade of an ancient Gothic edifice in a way that complemented his newly darkened expression. " _No,_ " he hissed, " _It cannot be..._ " The words were spoken so quietly that, had the Persian not been rapt with attention, might have been mistaken for a whoosh of breath. For an ephemeral instant, nearly imperceptible in its swiftness, his face paled, the blood that normally circulated under his skin tinged with suspicion; in lieu of a more apt description, it looked as though he had seen a ghost but faded soon thereafter. Again he adopted his inscrutable mien and ran a hand through his inky hair.

To the trained eye, it was apparent he knew something, _something_ of which Nadir wished to be appraised. "You know who's searching for you." he stated with quiet conviction; he hoped that through blunt confrontation he would bypass the customary prickly defensiveness that colored the masked man's demeanor. Asking his friend anything remotely personal was, and ever _had_ been, a most precarious venture. All he could do was pray that doing so now would not sign his death warrant.

Fortunately Erik still appeared to be lost in introspection, his eyes staring past the wall into another place, _another time_. " _Yes_... I have an intuition." he replied softly, tapping out a beat on the armrest of his chair. _He was tense._ It was an unnerving spectacle indeed to see a man always in command of his wits visibly spooked by something or _someone_. What or who could it be? Did he even _want_ to know? _Yes._ Like it or not, he was embroiled in whatever this was and had an obligation to see it through, trepidation be damned!

"Come, daroga, I believe it's time I told you more about my mother." Erik said listlessly, reading the other man's mind and adjusting his cravat.

* * *

 **Uh-oh, don't you just _love_ cliffhangers? _Not!_ Anyways, a second chapter is soon to follow to make up for my lack of updates. **

**I wonder if Christine will get over her melancholy. Maybe Erik can help with that?**

 **Also, shit is about to get real. Could the person looking for him really be his mother?  
**

 **More to follow! (Rate and Review?)**


	34. The Night Before

**PhantomFan01: Well, you'll have to wait a _little_ bit longer to confirm who is behind it all. What if it's all just a dream? Or a dream within a dream? Nah, it's a long-time coming but the interesting part (I hope) will be how it is dealt with. **

**Yay, finally we will resolve that awful cliffhanger! (Or will we?) Here is the second chapter as promised, so you can find out the answer to that question. Anyways, it's a continuation of the previous chapter so it picks up right where we left off; it's still the night before the opera but this time we get some E/C interaction. And as a bonus we find out why Nadir is in London. The next chapters will be as follows: Opera, Cowes Week, and _then_ the story gets good. But, like I said things are going to get dark pretty quickly so be prepared!  
**

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Erik blinked tediously, processing what he had just uttered. _Had he really just offered to discuss his past?_ His immediate instinct was to default and the words of demurral stood at the ready but some sort of villainous pragmatism dispersed them and reminded him of the unavoidable. Oh, he didn't want to, _not in the least._ Unconsciously he listed the tortures he'd rather endure. _I'd willingly sup on a breakfast of broken glass and hot coals than revisit those years_ , he thought acerbically.

But there was no choice to be had. From a young age he had learnt the appeal of privacy but it was his time with the gypsies that finally taught him the past was best compartmentalized, banished to some abyss within one's soul where light could never unearth it; only then could it do no harm. Personal things, _intimacies_ , were the most dangerous weapon an enemy could wield and could cut deeper than steel or burn more fiercely than fire. _This_ lesson he took to heart and there it blossomed, its protection spanning his entire adult life until now. Now he had to find the strength to lay down his arms and surrender.

True, it went against the careful and concise tailoring of his existence but shrewdness outweighed pride in dire straits, did it not? Once upon another time he would have made no such concessions. In that period dignity overrode all else, even security; but it was useless to pretend that he was still that person. He had always been wise beyond his years and forced into manhood too early, still he retained some vestiges of youth: impulsiveness and selfishness. Not even Persia crushed those traits under its boot heel, but they left him woefully vulnerable to love's cruelty; that became all too apparent at the Opera Populaire until the kiss that awakened him from his childish mire: _true love's kiss._ Erik had been a changed man after that, stuck in purgatory; he could not go forward nor slip back into his old habits. So there he floated through the insipid plane of being awaiting either salvation or condemnation for two whole years. Salvation, it was fated to be from the moment Christine returned to him and a man of his acuity knew he was indebted to some higher power.

As he began his proffered revelation, doubt assailed his mind and nearly halted his traitorous tongue but one word, _a single name_ , reminded both sides of his warring conscience that this sacrifice was a necessity. _Oh, Christine._ For insurance of her well-being and happiness he would martyr himself. _Besides_ , he resolved, _it can be kept vague_. He would share _just_ enough. And, albeit begrudgingly admitted, he knew the daroga would receive his confession with the impassiveness of a priest.

"Perhaps, once you are made aware you will come to understand the man I became with greater lucidity and why _her_ presence is so... _distressing_. My earliest memories barely contain the woman who birthed me, where most children had songs, smiles, a doting face ingrained into their minds, I have screams, words of hatred... _a mask_. _She_ was a great beauty, spoilt beyond measure by all those around her; my father included, but he died before I was born. I suppose that made my existence that much greater of an insult; her lover was deceased but not before he had saddled her with the spawn of a demon. Naturally as soon as she laid eyes on me, she wished to set me out to sea but the intervention of a priest stayed her hand. I suppose her fear of eternal damnation was stronger than her aversion to me. Yes, she begrudgingly fed and tended me when necessary but that was where her involvement ceased. She was content to ignore me the remainder of the time. I was not without some pretense of companionship; my mother had a little spaniel that took a liking to her unwanted offspring. For the first few years Sasha was the only maternal presence I really knew; I remember sleeping in her basket alongside her until my mother's tenderhearted friend somehow forced precious Madeleine to accept responsibility for me. She did so, I believe to the best of her ability, which was not much. Still, she saw to it that I was well-educated and supplied with most of what I wished: pens, ink, charcoal, reams of paper, books. She even hired a prestigious professor of architecture as my tutor; those lessons were the closest thing to happiness I experienced. But, make no mistake there was no shared love or kinship between us. Eventually my mother grew tired of the solitude I imposed upon her and ventured back into the world of the living where she met an idealistic young doctor. She must have been delighted that he wasn't repulsed by me like the rest of the superstitious peasants that inhabited our town! It was ever so unfortunate that he only saw me as a medical oddity, a fascinating subject of study, but when I disallowed her from seeing him, I suddenly became a competitor and the good doctor did what any other man would do... attempted to convince her to have me institutionalized. The town wasn't far behind him in that logic, except they had their own ideas on ridding the world of a monster. They came in the evening with crude weapons and torches demanding my head and met Sasha..."

His voice trailed off with an inhuman coldness that caused a shiver to course through his audience's body. "Amusing that they called me a monster, hmm? When it was _them_ who kicked her until she lay there broken. But then again, animals are often the victims of man's viciousness; innocents always suffer. I flew into a rage and recall very little other than burying Sasha, singing her requiem, and how tired I felt afterwards. Apparently I too had sustained injuries and the doctor, my mother's crusader, swooped in and saved me. I knew I could no longer remain there, what right had I to act as an obstacle to _her_ happiness? That very same night I fled whatever poor semblance of a 'home' I had and left behind the woman, whom the laws of nature and church compelled to label herself my mother; I was all of nine." he finished bitterly.

With a pensive sluggishness the Persian shook his head and heartily regretted not partaking in stronger libations. A silence yawned between them, an unwelcome foreign invader. Externally his reaction stayed neutral but inside he struggled to find something— _anything_ —fitting to say. Everything was now rendered in disturbing clarity; though Erik had been intentionally generalized in his retelling, the brief glimpses into his history gleaned from their time in Persia suddenly fit together in a macabre quilt of despair. He was positive there were a multitude of unanswered, undisclosed aspects but he would never dare inquire further; he sensed it was too abhorrent for even man's natural morbid curiosity to overcome. The unjust horror of it all was made somehow worse by the reticent manner with which it was related, were such a thing possible. If he had been in possession of a weak constitution he might have wept. Never in his life had he been more grateful for a composure hardened by years of sand, blood, and tragedy. "So you believe your—that _she_ is behind the telegram and efforts to locate you?" was the question he finally managed.

"I can only call it supposition at this stage but it seems to me too much of a coincidence to be purely speculative." There was none of the usual sardonic malice in his tone, only introspection and weariness. "What will you do if this hunch proves accurate?" Another pause stretched out as Erik considered the question, "I will leave London, leave the country altogether and forge a new life far from the public eye," he let out an unexpected laugh, "Surely you see the irony in play? I, who was forced to spend most of my life in shadow, have lived amongst men only to willingly return to my cave once more. I've had my share of fighting, daroga. Now I want only peace and Christine by my side. My how age and love change us, yes? Yet here time finds the Angel of Doom aching to retire and become a family man!" Erik chuckled again with a wide grin, his expression suggestion he alone was in on the most hilarious joke in existence.

"I'll admit, I always prayed you would find a woman worthy of your great talents, one who would restore your faith in mankind. I am also glad you are electing to take the higher moral ground regarding Poincare, but surely you do not think a man who has been singularly devoted to a case for a decade will take the bribe and simply leave you in peace, do you? From what I've gathered the fellow has the tenacity of a hound and feeds off the satisfaction his work brings; someone such as he should not be content giving up the trail for a settlement." Nadir rationalized, anticipating Erik would see the logical flaw. After all, it had been his job as daroga to read and analyze men long before their paths crossed and to this day he prided himself on being an excellent judge of character. The response was not one of thanks or even pensive reflection, instead he was answered with one of those vexing little smirks. He rolled his eyes, he _should_ have been smart enough to know that his companion was immune from such basal gaffes; at least in his _own_ mind.

"Yes, I've no doubt that my newfound restraint thrills you endlessly as my self-proclaimed conscience but all the same I am confident that he will gladly take the inducement. Whomever alleged that morality trumps monetary reward clearly hadn't been offered a large enough sum," his eyes darkened ever so slightly in unpleasant recollection, "every man has his price, of that I am unequivocally certain." he retorted emphatically, rising from his chair to indicate the conversation was at an end. The clock struck nine as he stood, a testament to his impeccable timing. The Persian shook his head slightly and it was all he could do to follow suit; he had long-since stopped wondering if these things were done purposely on Erik's part.

"Am I to assume you are taking your leave then?" he grumbled. Conversing with his friend never failed to sap him of energy and he could only hope that this unfortunate side-effect would not disappoint his guest later. "It is not classified as an assumption if it is a validity, my friend," came the predictably irritating reply, "but there is one last thing I wish to know before I depart."

 _Drat! What game were they playing now?_ Nadir massaged his temples and carefully considered the possibilities but found himself quickly overwhelmed. _Allah above, I am getting too old for this,_ he thought. "What is it that you wish to know?" he asked lamely. At this rate he would be lucky if he didn't fall asleep on the floor immediately after seeing his companion off.

"You never told me what brought you to London, daroga." _He should have guessed this matter would pop up again._ Though his reluctance to answer was solely owing to his exhaustion.

"Perhaps that is a tale for another time, we've been in the sitting room for over two hours. It's doubtless that you are eager to spend what remains of your evening with Christine..." he began; the need to lie down and clear his head was becoming increasingly persistent. "Nonsense! I am already here! Besides, I must concede that your eagerness to be rid of me is most entertaining. I quite like it when the tides have changed; perchance you will be aware of how I feel when you outstay your welcome, which—I might add—is often."

 _Why did he even bother?_ Knowing full-well he would receive no peace until he offered an explanation, he started his narrative, "After your 'departure' from Persia, I was detained and bound for prison. The Shah was not sure of my involvement, which allowed me to keep my life, yet he had no qualms over punishing me all the same for my failure. I was sentenced to five years but you are aware just how _desirable_ the jails of Mazanderan are, yes?" Erik nodded reverently; something resembling guilt was churning within him and he didn't appreciate it in the least.

"I'm sure you can understand my hesitance when I received the Shah's verdict. Fortunately for me, I had learned a trick or two from a great illusionist and was able to escape before I even set foot in one of those circles of hell. I fled to Europe and spent the better part of my five reclaimed years wandering. Eventually my travels brought me to Paris and I liked it so much, I stayed. I found myself a decent flat on the Rue de Rivoli and began to cultivate a fondness for the performing and musical arts. I held season tickets to the symphony and attended a fair amount of productions at the esteemed, Opera Populaire but—"

There was a clatter of china and his eyes shot up to behold a flustered looking Erik steadying his teacup onto its saucer; the latter hastily muttering what he assumed was some sort of apology. "Are you quite well?" The only reply he obtained was comprised of a curt nod. He stayed silent for a moment more, eyeing his guest with mild interest; it was so unlike him to be clumsy. "Anyways, as I was saying... Ah, yes, the ticket prices were rather high and if I am to be honest, the diva did not live up to her reputation."

"That's it put rather genially." Erik chided with a snort, unable to rein himself in any longer. "I had forgotten that you are probably well-acquainted with Parisian musical venues. Did you hear that the Populaire was rumored to be haunted as well?"

This time Nadir swore he heard a choking sound awkwardly masked as a cough; if he didn't know any better he'd say his friend was acting very strangely indeed, _even for him_ , but he chose to refrain from commenting. At any rate, he recovered quickly enough so maybe it was imagined?

"No, I _hadn't_ heard that, I'm afraid." The lie slipped from his lips with practiced ease. However, within the privacy of his own thoughts, Erik was positively guffawing. Thankfully years of practice had afforded him an exemplary poker face, otherwise his wild laughter might be met with suspicion from the daroga. _Haunted, indeed!_

"More likely than not it was a clever ploy by the managers to draw a larger crowd. I will say your fellow countrymen are a superstitious bunch. Last I heard the whole damn building burnt down, it's a shame, really. Of course I was already here by then. I left after that Prussian prince was offered the Spanish throne and rightly so; I spent enough time amidst the fools in court to know when conflict is inevitable. I wondered where I'd go next, especially after I had developed a taste for what you once affectionately referred to as the 'civilized world'. Ultimately I settled on London for its milder winters. It didn't hurt that I had picked up a smattering of the language from my acquaintances within the British ministry in Tehran. My English is rather good after three years spent here, wouldn't you say?" He switched from Persian to English with a proud smile and an equally ridiculous flourish of his hand.

"Oh, _yes_. I am sure Oxford will come knocking any day now and beseech you to head up a department. Though, if you are resolute in your ambitions, perchance you will receive a better offer from the prestigious Philological Society." Erik drawled in the same tongue with his characteristic enervating haughtiness. "Well, I daresay we can't all claim mastery like you at every craft we undertake!" the Persian groused in retort; sometimes— _most_ of the time—his companion was deserving of a good kick in the pants, at least in his opinion. "Your words, daroga." Erik offered a slight smile, "But, on that note I really must depart. I suppose the tale of how you managed to stumble upon _my_ concert hall of all places in this city must wait."

The ride back home was unbearable, without the daroga's mildly stimulating repartee he was forced to face reality. For the first time since he fled the debauched, ravenous clutches of Persia he craved morphine's sweet, blissful embrace to aid him in escaping his thoughts and worse yet, _memories_. Yes, memories were the most potent enemy man would ever face. Morphine could offer a cocoon of solace in which to enshroud himself until the pain died away but he was among the living now and no longer had such a luxury. He scoffed, as a member of society there were expectations to be met and people who cared for—well, _depended_ upon—him. Why had he ever desired this existence? He certainly had more freedom during his time under ground but that lifestyle hadn't landed him Christine so there weren't an abundance of complaints to be had.

Erik checked his pocket watch and realized a mere ten minutes had passed and yet the air was growing thin. All around him the cab seemed to constrict and conspire to entrap him like the gypsy cage from his past. It was a miracle he managed to survive the remainder of the journey. He struggled mightily to quash his wondering over _why_ his mother was searching for him and more still the reprehensible niggling hope that accompanied the revelation. _That_ little whit of infuriating boyish hope had lain dormant until now; it had been reawakened where he had previously thought it dead, deceased the night he ran away from home all those years ago.

But he had been sorely mistaken and _that_ , more than anything else, soundly irked him. The fact that his mother still held some measure of sway over _any_ part of his person was wholly enraging. In the wake of his formative years he had labored extensively to cultivate an aura power and fear but faced with this new self-insight, it had apparently all been in vain. Because of this he temporarily reconsidered his decision to let the meddling private investigator live. _It would be so very satisfying to release his frustration..._ but, all too predictably, Christine's image quelled these impulses; a calming salve for his murderous thoughts. By some impossible incongruity, he had won her love; two years ago that had been his sole purpose to the point of insanity and _now..._ _Well, mistakes were a singular happening._ And _now_ , more than ever he realized the importance of his plans for the future.

As he numbly exited the carriage and entered his home he noted how the weariness trickled down his spine and settled in his bones like antimony. Silently he made his way up the stairs, it seemed like he had aged a decade in the span of a single evening. In an unprecedented occurrence, the ever-bustling cogs of his mind ground to a hebetudinous pace. He was too exhausted to think further on tonight's bombshell; all he wanted was to entwine _her_ in his arms.

Christine curled into a ball, clutching one pillow securely to her chest. If she shut her eyes tightly, she could pretend it was a _someone_ rather than a _something_ she was holding. _Well, at least for a few precious seconds..._

Over the past two weeks, the most time they had spent together was during rehearsal. Each lonely night she was left to wonder if she had been the cause of this new distance between them. Whenever she broached the topic at rehearsal, he would insist that tutoring Francesco, various business arrangements, and the looming final concert of The Season were to blame; Annabelle backed up the last excuse, eagerly informing Christine of her speculations regarding Erik's plans for an unforgettable program. Luckily his outburst was forgotten and the chipper blonde returned to the townhouse without hesitation in a few days.

Though Christine was immeasurably grateful for the company, she would gladly trade their time together for one evening by _his_ side and was sure Annabelle would do the same if their situations were reversed and George was avoiding her like a leper. But her friend's regular visits were not the only consistency. After that one weekend, she had taken to sleeping in Erik's bed every night.

So now here she was crying herself to sleep, _yet again_ , this time on the eve of the opera. It wasn't very late; not yet ten by her estimation. Mrs. Foley had sought her out when she first came upstairs with a smile and a steaming mug of tea, urging her to get some rest. Whether or not this was at Erik's behest or the maid's motherly instincts, she did not know. The only thing that seemed plainly obvious was how little she wanted to perform tomorrow. Her plan of seduction had failed miserably and she doubted he would even be present before or after the show. Apparently whatever 'business' he had was much more important than her happiness but she was far too incurious to be angered by this; all she wanted was _him_ to hold her close.

" _Oh, Angel I miss you so..._ " she sniffled pitifully, burying her head in the damp coverlet as she had done so many times previous. Little whispers and plaintive phrases meant for him were intercepted and lost in the room's normal stony silence; she never received a reply, until now, _until tonight_.

"I'm here, darling Christine. Please do not cry..." It was a wicked trick of the senses, to be sure. Apparently she had cracked at last.

He had an inkling she'd be in his bed. In a better frame of mind he might have attributed it to a sensory keenness, the intimidating prescience he appeared to possess; but in actuality the hunch was owing to tangible experience. Tonight was not the first evening he returned to the townhouse in the past two weeks, far from it.

Originally vanity had lured him back to tend his appearance and that was when he accidentally discovered her new preference in sleeping places. Lord, the sight of her sprawled on his mattress, tangled in his sheets was enough to bring him to his knees. Erik elected for a place in a hotel after that, choosing to eschew temptation entirely. _Or so the plan had been._

His resolve lasted all of two days; on the third night he found himself once more a slave to this dangerous masochistic game. He came back to the site of his torment, a salmon swimming upstream to breed and die solely because instinct demanded it. At first he limited himself to composing in his study; it was enough to be under the same roof as her, even if she had no idea. Besides, his productivity during that time was ample evidence of her influence, however unintentional it was. Inevitably, this too became inadequate and he could no longer keep his distance, no matter how much self-loathing it inspired. He was addicted plain and simple; completely derailed by a drug far more potent than any other.

Eventually it became routine; at first every two days, then every other, and finally _every_ , _single_ damn night. Thankfully it was enough— _barely_ —to simply watch her from the shadows like the ghouls and goblins from the old wives tales. But if more time had passed, he doubted even this would satisfy. How it made him loathe himself! _Coward. Weak. Pathetic. Pithless._ he berated over and over. _Oh, but the things she whispered into the dark!_ Things never meant for his ears— _the_ wondrous little confidences that resonated with unspoken carnality in their innocence—rendered his rationale mute, over and over. And lurking he would remain, his thoughts a battleground between morality and his fantasies, rapidly devolving into pure explicitness; there Icarus flew just close enough to the sun to avoid being totally consumed. Then he crawled, wingless and weak, to the recesses of his study in an attempt to relieve his depraved desires; it took the edge off, _mostly_. Although, much like Icarus's fate, he knew his destruction was imminent, he simply did not care. He spent the rest of these nights clawing for some pretense of sleep only to repeat the cycle again.

"Even my senses are playing cruel jokes on me now. _What a joy!_ " she groaned, burying her face in the downy pillow she still clung to. "To whom are you speaking, my dear?" came the imagined answer, tinged with amusement. "You're not real, please stop your taunting and leave me be!"

"Oh, but I am _very_ real," the voice said, "however if you wish for me to let you alone I fear I must disappoint you by denying your request." As it spoke the mattress shifted and the room filled with a presence that was anything but intangible. "ERIK! You're home!" she squealed delightedly, throwing herself in the general direction the mattress sagged. She collided with him full-force, nearly knocking him onto his face as he removed his shoes and fastening her arms around him with an iron grasp. "Does this mean you are sleeping at the house tonight, _with me_?" A shudder ran through him at the veiled meaning extracted and twisted by his debased mind, multiplied exponentially by the feel of her breasts on his back. _It would be a miracle if he weathered the night._

"Yes, sweet Christine, it does. All the sooner if you'd kindly release me." He could escape her grip easily but to do so seemed some sort of sin. "All right, I will let you go but only if you promise me that you will return, Erik." The warmth of her breath washed over his neck and he realized just how close her lips were to his skin. As if he could bring himself to refuse even _if_ he wanted.

"I promise." With those two words, a sigh and he was left feeling suddenly cold. He wasted none of the time he was given and blessedly soon climbed back into bed, _back to Christine_. Erik cradled her with his body, pulling her close. _Good God the feel of her in his arms..._ It was overwhelmingly intoxicating. It was _right_ in the basest sense. Mercifully she appeared content herself with the simple pleasure of being held. If she had wanted more, he would have conceded without thought. And, if she petitioned for just that in the immediate future, he knew he'd be utterly helpless.

" _I'm so glad you are back..._ " she whispered, her statement punctuated by a long yawn. And just like that she was asleep. Tomorrow she would confront him over his absence but tonight she would get some much needed rest. Yes, _tomorrow_. Tomorrow they would become one in voice and song on the stage and _if_ luck had it, in body as well. It was this thought that swirled through her dreams as complement to his hard, lean form pressing into her.

 _Do not fret, my love, soon everything will fall into place_ , he wordlessly assured, placing a small kiss on her head. And with that, sleep came unbidden and willing for the first time in a fortnight.

* * *

 **Damn, I half-expected Erik to change his mind about revealing his past to Nadir but he manned up and went through with it. Yay! Poor boy, though.**

 **Now the mystery deepens and the wait to see if his hunch is correct begins; so sort of another cliffhanger in a way.**

 **But, we _did_ get to find a little about Nadir too. I'm sure some of his 'wanderings' will be elaborated on in later chapters, so there's something bright to look forward to. **

**Not as much E/C goodness but next chapter will MORE than make up for the paltry amount here. (I promise).**

 **Also, uh-oh. I hope that ring comes sooner rather than later, I don't think he can hold out for much longer on that front.**

 **Rate and review? Please? :D**


	35. The Opera

**PhantomFan01: It _did_ take them long enough, right?! Typical example of a man misreading the situation, lol. **

**iris2312: Finally you have your update and the opera I've been promising!**

 **Rooo97: Thanks! Glad to have another reader/review! Hopefully this will live up to expectations.**

 **Well, well what to say except I am a terrible procrastinator! I meant to have this published weeks ago but life (and a good friend's wedding) interfered. I cannot believe it's been a year since it was first published nor can I believe the story has spanned this long. Thanks to all your reviews and encouragements, I really would be nothing without them!  
**

 **Without further ado, I give you the night OF the Opera! And, another _more_ exciting chapter to follow soon, hmm? **

* * *

_A few sweet words of assurance..._ That had been all it took to wash away two weeks of miserable indifference. She simultaneously hated and adored his profound ability to both destroy and resurrect. It was not natural or usual in the least, it was just his way and there was nothing to be done outside of accepting that which simply was.

Numerous long nights blended had into one nebulous singularity of loneliness, a thick black cloud that rained fat droplets of anguish. Each of these evenings she had cried out for him, her savior, and each time there was no answer she would curse him thrice all while continuing to long for his presence.

Yet without fail, she would repeat the cycle, secretly loathing how much she needed him, a sailor hopelessly lost on a starless night. Then last night he had parted the darkness, her Northern star, her guiding light, _her Angel_. Last night she had not visited the world of dreams. No, she had lived a dream and unburdened by the ghoulish spirits that sought to haunt her, she at last rested peacefully— _safely_ —in his embrace.

Slowly, with a contented languor, Christine opened her eyes and stretched slightly, only to be met by empty sheets. Immediately she sat bolt upright and frantically scanned the room for any sign that her imagination hadn't completely deceived her. It had all been so real! To her infinite relief, she saw the bed was mussed on the side opposite her own, a promising indicator that she had not been alone. And— _she inhaled_ —even if she had slept fitfully she surely could not have conjured up his scent, right? That meant he had slipped out sometime before she woke. No doubt to avoid the questions he knew to be inevitable. Peeved by his cowardice in leaving yet again, she rose and stomped ungracefully in the direction of the exit. _Well, I will get to the root of the problem_ , she thought as she flung open the door and ran smack into ... _Mrs. Foley_ , the dejected voice in her mind supplied.

The latter seemed just as shocked by the collision. "Begging your pardon, miss. I didn't think you'd be up and about. You should've rang." she chided, striking a very candid resemblance to a mother hen; it might have made her laugh had she not been in such a dogged frame of mind.

"Where is Erik?" Christine asked impatiently whilst being ushered back into his room. "The _Master_ is downstairs at breakfast," the maid corrected gently, supplying the appropriate title. But she could have given a damn about propriety at the present moment, when her very _soul_ screamed to see him. "You can join him soon as you're dressed. It wouldn't do if you were to go down in naught but your nightclothes. I'll help you into something, dear. I hope you don't mind, what with young Dorothy gone this morning to visit her aunt." She shook her head in resignation, knowing submitting was her only available course.

Erik folded and unfolded the newspaper he held several times, if only to fan away the seething heat of her stare. Time had stood unmoving for more than ten minutes but her pointed gaze never once deviated. Something inside of him eventually snapped and compelled him to break this tension. "Eat your breakfast, it is doubtful that you'll be given much chance for adequate nourishment during today's rigmarole." She said nothing, though her glare only increased in intensity, were it possible, and he clutched at _The Times_ like a crude wooden shield to hold dragon-fire at bay. If ever there was a more uncomfortable meal, he could scarcely surmise. Memories of a long-ago birthday, his _only_ birthday, came unbidden in quiet rebuttal.

Oh, how he wished she would say something! However, when his unspoken request was finally granted, he thought the previous silence to have been preferable.

"That's _all_ you have to say?! The first time in two weeks you decide to grace me with your presence and your primary objective is to order me about like a dull-witted child?" Erik flinched, each word striking a smarting blow, and quickly scrambled to formulate a suitable answer.

"If memory serves, I spoke to you last night rendering your assertion invalid. Although, if you persist in acting like said child, I've no recourse but to continue to treat you such as you claim." _Perhaps_ it was the wrong reply, but accusations always struck a sour note for him. "Well, then... Since I _obviously_ do not have the ability to make my own decisions, I will do as you command, _milord._ " she retorted caustically, digging into her porridge deliberately and spooning heaps into her mouth.

"To speak with such dowdy commonness does not suit you." she heard him mutter, not bothering to look up from his damn newspaper. "Mm, I'm so glad I have someone wise to provide me direction. _Truly_ , it's touching." Now that she was on the warpath, she found it difficult to change the bridle; especially since he was determined to be _so_ infuriating.

Apparently, _that_ did it. "What is it that you want from me?!" he snapped, throwing the paper down onto the table, where it fluttered harmlessly. While her resentment lost no momentum, she was caught off-guard by his sudden attention and took a pause for consideration. " _Well?!_ " He was clearly growing impatient. _Good!_ she thought. But where her mind was clear and decisive, her tongue had yet to catch up. "I-I..." she stammered, "It's _just_ you've been gone so long and I fear without our evenings of practice, my voice has withered—"

"Christine," he interrupted with a sigh, "I can assure you that such concerns are irrational. Your performance will be nothing short of breathtaking; by this evening the whole of London will be under your spell and clamor at your feet in worship. I apologize for my absence but it has been necessary and I hope you will come to understand my reason for such in time. Perchance following the show you can level all of your complaints against me? I hardly think the present to be the appropriate time to air our grievances." She nodded, evidently placated. "That being said, I'm not so obtuse as to not think ahead to provide a peace offering, so to speak..." No sooner had his voice trailed off than a mysterious box adorned with a large satin appeared at her place. Christine's eyes went wide and she dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clatter. Unable to help herself, she clapped like a giddy child at the circus; his skills as a magician never failed to excite. "You may open it." At his coaxing, she slowly opened the box to reveal a magnificent assortment of chocolates.

"Take care not to overindulge before the show; you remember my feelings on dining in close proximity to singing, yes?" he added sternly, powerless to stop his own lips from reflecting her delighted smile. "Yes, I learnt the lesson about gluttony the hard way. How could I forget the dressing down Madame gave Meg and me when we ate that entire box of chocolates Meg stole from Carlotta's dressing room? We got so sick that we missed practice. She was furious! As punishment she withheld dessert for a month and made us rise early for a week to make up for the time we missed. Of course, Madame's anger was a summer's breeze compared to Carlotta's... Oh, how she stamped her feet, cried, and screeched to have us whipped and thrown into the cellars but then she stopped her tantrum when the lights flickered and that enormous—" Christine ceased her wistful reminiscing and a look of realization flitted across her face. " _You..._ " was all she said.

Erik affirmed her accusation with an unapologetic, devilish smirk. "Yes, although I feel sorry for the little fellow for being dealt the unfortunate lot of taking a dive into the décolletage of that wretched heifer. It's a fine thing that spiders do not have ears, though the vibrations from her shrieking likely rattled the fangs out of his mouth. Pity I was not able to find a deadly species on such short notice..."

"Oh, Erik, that's a wicked thing to say!" she scolded playfully, not so secretly wishing the insufferable prima donna had met her end through a spider's bite. It definitely would have made her life a lot easier! "Would you have minded terribly?" he asked, raising his visible brow quizzically. "Well, _no_. But it still would have been considered murder."

"Would it have been? I could hardly be held culpable had the old toad been bitten as it is not within my realm of abilities to control the whims of insects and arachnids. Besides, spiders fall from the flies and rafters with regularity."

She took a small sip of tea in supplication, knowing he had solidly won the short debate, and moved to change the subject before she started listing her own devious fantasies about Carlotta's demise. "Will we be arriving at the theatre together or are we to travel separately?" His smile faded when the meaning behind her query reared its head; she was trying to ascertain if he would leave her again.

"Together, methinks. Unless you'd rather make your own grand entrance." The rejoinder came out casual but forced; nevertheless she smiled with jubilation. "Together, _of course_! Were I to be alone, it would be unbearable." she assured emphatically, grabbing his hand. All froze briefly when their eyes met. Her breath hitched as he leaned in ever so slightly before coming to his senses and yanking himself from her grasp. "Then that's it settled." he said, taking up the paper again, a slight tremor clouding his voice.

After breakfast she joined him in his study to read whilst he tended to correspondence and other affairs. She tried to focus on the book in hand instead of her wounded feelings and the man who inflicted them. Why had he jerked away like that? Was it done in disgust or propriety? But, try as she might, she discerned no reason for his evulsion nor could she keep her eyes off of him, the enigmatic portrait of masculinity that was her Angel.

As she stared at him there, hunched over his desk in his shirtsleeves, fountain pen in one hand and the other tapping out time—a vision of the future swam before her, _a future spent with him_ ; their days passed in similar fashion to this very one. A little girl seated beside her on the couch, chocolate curls spilling over her dainty shoulders, learning stitches; _her daughter_. Suddenly the door swung open and a young boy, Erik's own spitting image, ran into the room to show off his latest invention to the father he slavishly idolized. The girl threw down her needlepoint at the intrusion and determinedly announced she'd rather join her brother. Both children looked up at her through their father's striking eyes and she knew they could not be denied.

Christine was very nearly brought to tears by the poignant daydream and the want it elicited. It only served to remind her the importance of tonight's confrontation. _Yes, tonight all would be laid bare and hopefully be the start of a Providence of her own device._

The thought of which weighed on her already frayed mind as one of the maids helped her into her first costume. "There. All done, miss. You look a picture tonight. I'll take my leave now, unless you'll be needing something else." said she. "No, thank you for helping me into costume, Edna. You may go." Christine opened her eyes to study her—or rather Violetta's—appearance in the vanity mirror. Admittedly, she looked much better than she currently felt. Momentarily the curtain would rise and she would grace the stage. _Holy Father, was this all really happening?!_

Watching the set for the first Act moved into place, she realized the true reason for her nerves lay with what was to follow. How exactly did one go about rekindling an extinguished flame with a wet match? Then she recalled the words spoken—nay, _begged_ —the last night they spent together and a blush heated her cheeks; she doubted such brazenness could be summoned on command. For if it could, the matter would have been long ago resolved and she would be by his side as a wife. On second thought, perhaps directly asking, discomfiture be damned, _would_ present the most effective solution.

Any further musing, however, was cut short by the beginning notes of the orchestra carried up into the theatre on a soft, lilting breeze; shortly thereafter followed by the entrance of the dinner guests. Taking a deep, cleansing breath she watched the curtain ascend regally under the ever-watchful limelight; and the demure Christine de Chagny, whom flushed violently at the very thought of intimacy ceased to be, transformed into the bold, seductress, Violetta.

Emerging from the cocoon of shadows, metamorphosis complete, _all_ hesitation, her _every_ worry dispelled when the first line of song escaped her lips. Her confidence only doubled with each glance and titter of approval from the audience. Only when Erik's voice rose at the urging of the party guests did silence descend. The audience, previously the portrait of excitement, scarce did move, appearing for all purposes frozen in time, utterly entranced by the unearthly beauty overwhelming their senses. Act One flew by, climaxing with Violetta bestowing upon Alfredo a flower—a red rose tied with thin, onyx satin ribbon—to serve as both token of affection and invitation; and she could not help but smile at the joke to which only they were privy, _it was so quintessentially him_.

The beginning scene of the second Act passed likewise and she thought it a bit too eerily familiar that their characters were afforded such a small sliver of bliss before adversity intervened. Throughout Germont's passionate denunciation of Violetta's character she discovered the emotion ridiculously easy to muster. _After all_ , had she not experience with this very same matter? She thought back the Comte de Chagny's similar reaction when Raoul announced their engagement and was almost certain that this very discussion had occurred behind the closed doors of the Comte's grand study. But it was not the grief of this past obstacle from which she drew; instead harkening back to how her 'white knight' and childhood friend had warned her away from the man with whom her spirit lay. Christine tried not to dwell on what might have been had she not capitulated as Violetta choked back genuine tears and agreed to leave Alfredo.

Erik beheld the interaction betwixt the characters from his place in the wings with a piqued interest. In every rehearsal, including the final one, her acting had been somewhat stiff—overlooked by the staff in favor of her vocal talents—but now she appeared to have ascertained how to tap into her emotions. He was immeasurably proud for an instant before it hit him with jarring force; she _had_ to be channeling the remembered grief from the rejection she certainly faced from that fop's parents. _Of course she was!_ How could he have been such a fool to think, _to hope_ , she had abandoned all memory of his rival? The first one to kiss her, to hold her, to touch her, to be bound to her through sacred vows; the boy who swore to an equally reprehensible God to cherish her for the whole of his life, a life which had been cut ironically short, leaving _him_ —the monster from whose clutches her prince had gallantly rescued her—both the spoils of victory _and_ the last laugh. However, laughter was the farthest thing from mind as he bit back bile and walked back onstage, greedily cleaving to his anger; it would serve him well in the Act to come.

 _Almost!_ Her doleful admission of love and the sweet notes on which it glided was _almost_ enough to soothe away his irate doubts. At least until the blatant parallel and her subsequent change in humor assailed him and the fire within burned anew. _Damn the boy!_ And damn himself for the involuntary flutter of his heart when he imagined she sang only for him! Yet it was flight of fancy alone...

With dark rage brewing thusly the next scene came quite naturally and whilst issuing Alfredo's challenge to the loathsome baron, Erik resisted the urge to simply kill his 'competitor', if _only_ to remedy the deprivation of such poetic satisfaction that morning in the cemetery. But the baron, detestable though he was, was not his Judas. At last, the true recipient of his fury ran to him, pleading for him to depart.

A wound he believed healed over suddenly reopened as if by the searing twist of a blade when Violetta affirmed her love for his adversary, echoing back to when it was first inflicted by a secret kiss on a snow-covered roof. In a blind rage, Alfredo threw his winnings and his heart by symbol, before the wicked Delilah's feet in payment for her false love; his voice thundered forth in a black cloud, seemingly crackling with the electricity of betrayal's sting.

On cue Christine fainted with the evening's trauma, bowled over by guilt in her own part, as dealt by her former lover. And she _knew_ what he felt when she had left him. For the first time she _knew_ , _truly knew_. He wasn't acting, _he was reliving_. She desperately longed to break character and rush to his side. _Anything_ to alleviate his suffering! It was perfectly unbearable but somehow she resisted temptation. Scene Two of the second Act saw its tumultuous end, closed with her wordless promise to set things right.

The lights reignited, slightly dimmed in somber tribute to a gravely ill Violetta. Sitting in the bed looking out into the theatre, she was struck with a niggling cognition. While the doctor concluded his assessment and she delivered her lines, the sense of morbid irony struck in full. She knew her father died from the very same illness and only now did Violetta's inevitable doom sink in; the healing salve of love in pure had planted hope but _only now_ did she see that even such a forging of souls was rendered brittle with the power of sickness. This performance was as much for her papa as it was for her beloved teacher. Father and tutor, the two so very different and so remarkably similar and each with the distinction of possessing her heart in full; a feat, if honesty served, in which Raoul never had a chance of success.

Under the mournful respect of the stage lights, she invariably thought of life and death and words entered her mind. Words of fidelity and love eternal; sacramental vows that spoke of a lifetime of commitment only rendered null and void by death's embrace and eclipsed in finality by such. Her promise had been a false one, bound to Raoul at the terrible cost of what she believed to be her Angel's life. But, rather than punish her deception, the Lord had seen fit to grant her a second chance and, _so help her_ , she would _not_ squander it in a girlish flight of fancy. _Why had she been so foolishly blind?_ In the wake of this epiphany, her lines were delivered with a detached automation.

That is until _he_ entered, Violetta's Alfredo, _her Erik_ , each couple a reflection unto the other, each torn apart by those around them and left to deal with the inevitability of their circumstances and faced by separation. For the characters the barrier was to be the curtain of death whilst for her and Erik it had been marriage; both equal in their certitude. The characters were at disadvantage because she had the prospect of a lifetime with her one love within her grasp. So, stealing a shaky breath, she rushed forward into his awaiting arms.

Erik shifted to combat the winding he had just received as result of Christine's enthusiasm. _It was a queer thing_ ; he was positive that his lack of acting had been no secret and expected hesitancy or reservation. _Certainly not to be nearly toppled!_ In the midst of confusion, his only recourse was to surmise that this too was an act on her part. She had doubtless proved to be an excellent actress, _had she not_?

Anger renewed coursed through him; anger he found it difficult to hold fast to when she wrapped her arms about his neck and looked deeply into his eyes. The adulation within them warmed and enriched their brown color until they seemingly glowed with emotion: love, forgiveness, apology, and adoration—adhered as one by passion. Tenderly he stroked her dark river of curls and cohering tightly to her, uttering sweet affiances for a future that would never come to pass.

Again she swooned, a perfect impression of demise, _so perfect_ it bore him back to the horrid day by the seaside and he cradled her more snugly. Lost in memory, he began to sing her back to the living, _back to him_. All at once he was himself, Alfredo, and Orpheus leading Eurydice from the Underworld, his notes written in the tears that flowed onto porcelain skin so frail, _so very cold!_ Her sharp inhale announced his success, her revival at the behest of _his_ music.

Abruptly she was on her feet, her cheeks illuminated with a ruddy strength and her song—suddenly clear, devoid of any ailment—rose and mingled with his. Their shared voices entwined in perfect complement and contrast, light and dark, beauty and beast, Angel and demon. Not another soul was there onstage, only _him_ , only _her_ , united by music. It held them spellbound in delightful rapture until the very last note was played.

As the melody tapered off, her final words had no place in the opera and were solely received by his keen ears; they came as barely a whispered breath to those outside their current plane of existence and sealed with a kiss.

 _Only you and you alone; always and forever, my Angel_.

With that, she closed her eyes for the last time to the score of his choked howl of anguish. A live current of indomitable love surged all around them, charging the atmosphere as the curtain descended. She was just barely conscious of the persistent hum that gave way to the raucous roar of thunderous applause. It surrounded and seized her, echoing inside of her head, until Erik took her hand and silenced the cacophony. He helped her to stand and at last she saw her fellow cast members, each of them clapping in awestruck fascination, and a rush of new life surged through her veins.

Numb, Christine allowed herself to be led before the cheering audience to give her bow. If not for his palm resting solidly against hers, she felt she might float away. _Well done, my love,_ said a voice in her ear and she looked in time to catch him wink. _It was over!_ The impossible month of preparation and heartbreak had paid off and they were free to do as they pleased. Which, _if she had her way_ , would mean a wedding in the works sooner rather than later.

* * *

 **Well, that's the opera for you. What did everybody think? I think there are some parallels to be found between their experiences and Verdi's opera and I tried to capture just how that would affect them. I felt like it would be one of those 'hitting too close to home' situations for each of them but neither of them really considers the other finds it just as painful.**

 **This chapter was too long and had to be cut in half, I think the next chapter will please some people. ;)**

 **I wonder what Christine has planned for her confrontation and how it will go over. Do you think Erik will respond the way she wants him to or is she in over her head?**

 **Rate and review, please?**


	36. A Long-Awaited Discussion

**Wow, I'm awful aren't I? Sorry for such a long delay! I had a bit of writer's block and every time I sat down to continue the story, some other task pulled my attention away. It's kind of sad because this chapter was halfway written lol. Anyways, I promise to try and be better about things!  
**

 **TheLittleRedCrane: Thanks for your kind words! You will find out who has been shadowing him soon but I will say one of your guesses is spot on. There WILL eventually be a happy ending, I am a romantic as well so I know the struggle, lol.**

 **iris2312 - Aww, thanks! You make me blush.**

 **PhantomFan01 - Hahaha, patience. They will (probably) get married eventually!**

 **Thanks for the favorites and reviews! (And I wouldn't say no to more)**

* * *

Five minutes— _or it might have been an eternity for all she knew_ —passed and the applause only seemed to increase. The heady rush of elation over a stellar performance mingled and churned within her stomach, leaving in its wake an imprint of disappointment that it was to be a singular occurrence. True to the spirit of the Opera Ghost, Erik had meticulously negotiated the terms of the performance with the manager beforehand: insisting that they'd only grace the stage on the opera's opening night in Monsieur Porter's honor upon the agreement that Erik would personally select the new leads.

Now, obligation fulfilled, they were free and the implication of such began to dawn on her. Though she understood his reasoning for doing so, at present she would have gladly welcomed any sort of distraction.

Nerves over the task ahead replaced the previous sensation of triumph on the silent walk back to her dressing room; Erik, thankfully, was too deep in thought to notice the blatant conflict raging within her mind. _T_ _he time is as good as any to talk to him_ , she assured herself. After all, he seemed in a pleasant enough mood and they could rely on the room's privacy. _So close!_ In her periphery, she saw him reach out to open the door for her. She was so very close to resolution, this ridiculous charade would end tonight! _And yet..._

It was one thing to carry out this perfect seduction within her imagination but to put it into action was another matter entirely. Would she even have the courage to see it through? _Well_ , there was only one way to answer her question. In past situations when fortitude was needed, she would call upon the Holy Father and pray for him to lend her strength. Christine struggled to contain a laugh. Beseeching the Lord for the _strength_ to entice a man outside of the benefit of marriage, not half a year since her husband died? _That_ had to be blasphemy worthy of Sodom and Gomorrah.

 _No_ , she would not be receiving any celestial aid with this task, she would simply need to steel her own conviction. _Easier thought than done._

She opened her mouth to invite him inside. _It was a start_ , she told herself. The words were on her lips, trickling off her tongue, about to be birthed into existence when they were drowned out by a booming voice. Her eyes automatically sought out the source but she needn't have bothered, she already knew to whom it belonged.

Much to her chagrin, the robust form of Lord Tweeddale now sauntered towards them. Of all the times he had to interrupt this moment, it had to be when she had drawn up the determination needed to— _Damn_ , this was hopeless! Were she still the silly little thing she was at the Populaire, she would have taken the interruption as a sign of almighty disapproval but she was a woman now and it was nothing more than _frustrating_ coincidence, right?

The old man smiled at her, " _Brava_ , my dear, you were exceptional! I'm sure you are quite exhausted following such a riveting performance and shall leave you to rest. I hope you do not mind my having a word with Monsieur Leroux?" She shook her head and feigned a polite smile, never so displeased in the face of a compliment. What else could she have done?

"My apologies..." Erik mouthed, observing her look of resentment with a curious eye.

Perhaps he would realize that her business with him was important and hurry back? _And, perhaps not._

After an hour of waiting she allowed Sir John to hail her a cab and her previous thought over divine intervention rehashed itself. Maybe this _was_ for the better. Christine hadn't the slightest idea how her _persuasions_ would be received, what if he judged her a slattern?

True, they had lain together already but that could have simply been put up to drunken passions fuelled by grief and near-loss; it was a single event and not a deliberate and meticulous seduction. Besides, would he not have announced his intentions were he interested? Surely throwing herself at him like a desperate trollop wouldn't speak in her favor. What was she even thinking? How it must look with a husband so newly departed, her out in Society, dancing, and laughing, and singing! It was _shameless_ , _reprehensible_.

If Raoul's family knew, _if anybody knew_... It appeared two years of toxic whispers had been valid, she was little more than a whore.

 _Good Lord_ , what would Madame Giry or her dearly-departed papa say? Christine paced the room, struggling to undress herself, the frustration helping her to think. Wasn't it enough just to be here with Erik, to share in little intimacies and enjoy the company of one another, to be free to love? _It should be and it's, frankly, much more than you deserve,_ her brain interjected. _You'll be glad with what you get_ , it told her.

"No!" she whispered fiercely, not immediately bothered that she was conversing with herself. Her first mistake had been allowing others to poison her mind, her second, denying her true feelings, and her final mistake had been choosing Raoul; such folly had nearly cost her everything.

Yet by some bizarre twist of fate, she and Erik had been reunited. They had been afforded another chance. She'd be damned if she would squander it! Why care a jot for what was _right_ , for the _acceptable_ or what _was_ and _wasn't_ done? What the two of them shared was so far above, so much more than what other mortals could fathom; why must they play by the bitter, heartless rules of a spurned Society? _He_ was her promised salvation and her deliverance, her _everything_ : the very essence of her existence; her heart beat for her Angel alone. She wanted him, she wanted _all_ of him: every piece of his soul, every scrap of his being and, have him she would. So, as she changed into her nightgown and washed her face, her resolve surged with life anew.

Whatever held back the progression of their relationship would be dispelled. Tonight she'd find the cause of his avoidance, why he shied away from the touch he once craved, why the sizzling passion between them had frozen into stagnancy. _Tonight_ all would be revealed! Christine pulled the sash of her dressing gown taut with certitude. _The decision had been made._

She would wait for him the whole night long if she had to.

[x]

Erik returned home weary but rife with unplaced anxiety. There was not a soul to note his arrival, a small comfort in the face of the heavy cognizance that she awaited his return within his bed. His time of judgment had come and no delay was available. He had to face her and divulge the reason for his fortnight furlough. Why had he made such a foolish promise that morning? It was more than his sapped nerves could handle and he endeavored to calm himself before he acted rashly. _Yes, he needed to still his mind._ This had to be approached rationally. So, after switching to his black bandit's mask and pouring himself a dram of scotch, he selected a book from the shelf of his study and turned to a random page in the hopes of buying himself more time.

 _She walks in Beauty, like the night_  
 _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_  
 _And all that's best of dark and bright_  
 _Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_  
 _Thus mellow'd to that tender light_  
 _Which Heaven to gaudy day denies._

 _One shade the more, one ray the less,_  
 _Had half impair'd the nameless grace_  
 _Which waves in every raven tress,_  
 _Or softly lightens o'er her face;_  
 _Where thoughts serenely sweet express_  
 _How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

He first felt the _presence_ , that queer tingling exhilaration that plucked at his senses whenever she was near, when he reached the end of the second stanza. And, gently raising his gaze to meet hers, continued to read aloud:

 _And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_  
 _So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_  
 _The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_  
 _But tell of days in goodness spent,_  
 _A mind at peace with all below,_  
 _A heart whose love is innocent!_

The melodic entrancement of his voice lingered still thick in the air even after it had ceased. Now, their eyes still locked and each of them silent, Christine swore he had her possessed. Her face grew heated when she recalled the way in which he read, the way he pronounced every word as though it had been written for her alone. His power over her was as palpable as it was frightening, yet something deep within her yearned, _pleaded_ , for her to capitulate. _God, she wanted nothing more!_

Momentarily she forgot her entire purpose in approaching him, the better part of weeks of planning were gone, dissolved by his golden voice. But the steadily building flame inside her did not particularly care; she might have floated there for the remainder of eternity had he not spoken.

"Christine? What in the devil are you doing awake?" He had the audacity to sound surprised. Were his words, was _his vow_ , at breakfast so easily put from mind?

Anger broke whatever trance held her and with abrupt clarity she remembered her intention. There would be no more evasions on Erik's behalf! She was single-minded, dogged in her focus. "I could ask the same of you! Or were you planning on completely throwing me over for the company of Lords Tweeddale and— _and..._ " Christine plucked the book straight from his hands, "Byron?" she finished, reading the cover of the pilfered item and tossing it aside.

"I was hardly aware my partaking in light-reading before bed constituted, 'throwing you over'." he said callously, apparently more perturbed by her words than her actions.

She exhaled, deciding it was better to jump straight into it and not risk being waylaid _again_. "I've been waiting for you to return. Sleep hadn't even occurred to me in light of all that we have to discuss. Do not think me so foolish to have forgotten what you said this morning, Erik, what you _promised_."

Erik stood wordlessly and took two long strides to the globe which housed his spirits, divesting himself of his waistcoat. "Do you not think the hour too late for serious conversation? Surely, if it has waited this long, it can be postponed until morning." There was a spot of irritation in his voice; he still loathed being cornered, even after all this time, _even by her_. The furor with which she responded had him taken aback.

"No, it cannot, Erik! I've let this continue for far too long! I am tired of waiting! We live under the same roof and I all but have to schedule an appointment to speak with you. The hour may be late but you've no one to blame save yourself. Had you been here within the last two weeks perhaps I could have brought it up at a more convenient time, maybe over dinner or evening coffee. But, no, you force me to confront you in the depths of night!"

He stared at her for a second, apparently stunned by her boldness; the timid little opera mouse from memory would never have dared to address him in such a fashion. Evidently he had become pathetically soft in his dotage. He didn't even know what she was on about, really. Certainly this couldn't solely about the past two weeks... What other matter was so gravely serious that it demanded immediate attention? Erik briefly considered brushing her aside but one look at her determined expression made him concede, the guilt at being reminded of his absence did not help. Why could she not understand what was good for her? Still, it was better to get whatever it was over and done lest it spark another war between them.

"Oh, _very well_... What is so urgent?" He untied his cravat, throwing it onto his desk with a tired sigh. Hopefully this would not take long.

Christine fumbled with the ties on her robe nervously. Everything she had wished to say, rehearsed to repetition, slowly deserted her tongue. How did one approach this? "W-why haven't you been home? Is it me? D-do you find me repellent?" She saw him pause, carefully replacing the decanter.

"Christine, it's late and these worries are the product of an overtired imagination. Go to bed, let sleep clear your mind. I will reveal everything tomorrow, I swear it."

She laughed; it was a shrill and cold sound, foreign compared to her usual bright tinkle. "You swear it, _do you_? Just as you swore to me this morning?! Excuse me if I don't believe you. I've had quite enough of your false promises, Erik. I imagined _nothing_. You can't keep dismissing me like a meddlesome child, I will no longer stand for it. You must think me a grand fool to consistently fall into your traps but I see more than you realize. You can't deny that you've been avoiding me and now I _DEMAND_ TO KNOW WHY THAT IS!" she shouted, stamping her foot peevishly. Admittedly, this childish act did not do much for her case but it did feel good to release some of her anger.

Contrary to her expectation, there was no prompt response on his part. No silver-tongued statements or witty retort met her; in fact, he was uncharacteristically mute.

Within his sharp mind, Erik jostled for a fitting explanation. He hadn't expected to be put on the spot like this and, truth be told, it aggravated him. Even worse, he couldn't deny a single accusation. What was there to say? She knew she was right, knew she had him pinned, what could he do? Did she want to gloat over his mistake?

"Despite what irrationality may have you believe, I've not been purposely elusive, just preoccupied. Please try remember that my position at the concert hall entails a great deal of work. I am not the son of a Comté with engagements no more pressing than gambling and social calls!" he replied icily.

His response proved to be the breaking point, he knew he shouldn't have resorted to such a personal attack but defensiveness had made him lash out. Christine's face fell and contorted miserably as she began to cry. "Y-you cannot d-deny that you recoil f-from me. W-what of this morning, when you snatched your hand from mine or when you rose early to avoid awakening beside me?! _TWO WEEKS_ , Erik. We've not been alone for two weeks and now you shrink from me! I c-cannot s-stand it!"

All the while she levelled allegations, he stood there dumbfounded. It tore at him, made him want to claw out his heart in apology, but he knew it had been for the best: the best decision for everybody. So why did it feel so wrong? Why did it gnaw at his innards? This was _precisely_ why he wished to reserve this conversation for tomorrow when tempers and temptations did not run rampant.

But, her eyes, although staring at him, did not register his surprise. Instead she continued her verbal assault, approaching him steadily. " _Is it..._ _have you_ —have you grown bored of me? Do I disgust you? I-If you no longer wish to be around me, let me know by all means, because I am suffocating! I've earned the basic right to know if you've been spending your nights in the arms of a... a _whore_!"

" _Careful_ , my dear, you _forget_ to whom you speak... I am not one to lightly suffer such impudence. I will not strike you however I have no qualms about locking you away until you learn some basic civility." His voice was low and dangerous as he stepped forward to meet her, fully ready to carry out his threat. " _Enough_ with the nonsensical accusations! They are as fictitious as they are absurd, a fact you might see were your rationality unclouded by fatigue." This statement was issued as a finality, demanding no rebuttal be made.

A muscle in his face twitched. _Him?_ In the arms of another woman? _Ridiculous!_ Another occasion might find it _laughable_ , even. On the one hand, he hated to have made her cry, but on the other her wild impertinence had to be put in check; he would not tolerate being spoken to like that, no matter how slighted she felt!

If she could not air her grievances respectfully and without resorting to petty, baseless feminine jealousies, he would not suffer through them. Erik stood in the middle of the room at full-height, rigid and imposing. His warning had given her momentary pause and dark, resentful eyes glared at him. He wouldn't dare imprison her within her room again, would he? The expression he wore said otherwise and she knew she'd have to tread lightly if she wanted to be heard.

"I will reiterate _once_ more... The past fortnight has found me engaged in matters of business, often well into the early morning. Those nights which were not spent in my office at the concert hall were spent here, in my study, or at a hotel as I did not wish to disturb your sleep. I apologize for my inattentiveness, but believe me when I say I would have much rather enjoyed my evenings in your company rather than that of the orchestra or the insufferable daroga. _Now_ , for your other complaints... I could never in a life-entire grow bored of you, Christine. Do you delude yourself into believing, in all honesty, that any woman could compare to you? Your witless insinuations insult me deeply. Never has there been nor will there _ever_ be anybody else _,_ only and ever you. What room have I—has a creature, an aberration, such as me to be repelled by such beauty? I should kiss your hem for deigning to love a monster. Would you like that? Would you like me to grovel and spout my endless thanks for your benevolence?!" He sank to his knees. "Then come here, let me waste no time!"

Her tears resumed, not borne out of her own upset but at the sight in front of her. He was right, her words had been thoughtless and cruel: the selfish arguments of a child. She couldn't bear to see Erik reduce himself like this no matter how embittered she was. "No! P-please don't kneel before me, I don't deserve it. I'm sorry, it was foolish to say such things. Please, get up. I—"

"Come here." he repeated, rising to his feet.

She complied, still sniffling, and he could not tear his eyes away; his heart beat in unhampered cadence. The light of the gas lanterns caught the filmy thinness of her sleepwear as she came bidden, the loose cinch of the robe further accentuated her womanly curves, taunting him. He wondered why she insisted on wearing that damn thing, it hardly concealed anything.

At last she stopped in front of him, unsure. Was he going to make good on his threat to lock her away? "You have come back to me. Never again will I let you depart, never will I give you up: you are _mine_ till the end of ages." With that, he grabbed and kissed her fiercely.

 _Yes!_ This was exactly the outcome she had desired. His kiss was like a divine embrace, heat spread from her face through her limbs ending with a tingle in her extremities. Christine closed her eyes and let her mind go blank to better absorb each sensation. But there was something not right... it wasn't until the warmth of his lips was replaced by a cool breeze that she realized the kiss had ended.

It had barely begun, his tongue had only just grazed her lips before he hastily drew back as if scalded. "No. _No, we should not..._ " he muttered weakly, turning away and retreating to his desk where his drink sat. He sipped it slowly in an attempt to quench the fire that had sparked as soon as their lips met, an easy task in theory but a near-impossible one in practicality.

She definitely wasn't going to take this well...

Frantically he scrabbled for a fitting explanation, one that wouldn't reveal his impending proposal but would prove satisfactory enough to put her off. Nothing came immediately to his muddled, hazy mind. _Damn!_ He would just have to think harder. Where was his brilliance when he needed it? Obviously it had switched off in the presence of a much more powerful drive.

"Erik?"

 _Too late._ Damn it all to hell! His time was numbered, there could be no further delays.

"What's wrong? I-I thought you s-said you weren't repulsed by me and yet you cannot stand to even kiss me!" she wailed, clearly on the verge of sobbing.

 _God_ , there was no delicate way to diffuse this situation. Still, he must try before any additional reasoning ability was lost. "Christine," he began, "I— _what_ I said previously holds true and repulsed would be the _last_ word I'd use to describe how I feel for—"

"Then why did you pull away again? This marks the second time today that you've withdrawn from my touch. If it isn't revulsion, then what is it?" she interjected, drying the corners of her eyes with a sleeve. There was no room for weakness; no sense in crying, her early tears hadn't moved him. A new tack was required here and she'd get to the bottom of the matter come fire or brimstone!

" _It_ —it's difficult to explain..." he said lamely, turning to face her.

"Can you try? Please? I promise I will do my best to listen, to understand. Erik, if there's something the matter then maybe I could help. I _want_ to help. Please let me." Christine advanced while she spoke, reaching out to show her desperation to provide whatever aid she could.

Foolish girl. Sweet, yet so _very_ foolish.

This was proving to be every bit as challenging as he had feared. He was fast running out of options, of ways to make her understand her effect on him. "There's nothing the matter. As I said previously, the explanation is complicated. It has nothing to do with whether or not I _want_..."

"What is it that you want?" She continued to steadily glide towards him with some new emotion flaring in her eyes. Determination? Elation? Validation? Which one he couldn't pinpoint. Not that it was of great consequence, whatever feeble grasp his logical mind exerted over his sensuality loosened with each step she took. Something inside of him screamed for her to stay back and implored a hasty retreat on his part; it was the only thing that might save him.

Heedless and helpless, Erik set his glass down, aware that his hands had begun to shake. How to answer? This was dangerous territory. _You,_ his inner voice replied, _every single inch of you. I want to lose myself within you. I want to take from you until nothing remains..._

"A great _many_ things..." He sighed, studying his jittery hands in quiet fascination before running one through his dark hair.

"What do you mean? Erik, look at me." she asked, confused by his cryptic response. Ever a glutton for punishment, he obeyed, noting she had closed the distance between them. He swallowed thickly. Her robe, which had once stood barrier—poor excuse though it was—had come undone and the shameless light showcased the sheerness of her nightgown; the ivory gauze material flowed over her body, effortlessly clinging to her slender form, highlighting the swell of her breast and the curve of her hip. It was as though the whole thing was a torture device personalized for him: his very own circle of hell.

 _God_ , she was standing right there. He could— _he wanted_ —to reach out and touch her… It would be _so_ simple, so _very_ easy. _Do it, take her, stop resisting your utmost desire_ , his thoughts urged. Christine placed a hand on his cheek, gently turning his head.

" _D_ _on't…_ " What else could he have said?

He was transported back to Persia, to that wretched slave girl at his feet and his desire threatening to consume him. She was mere inches away now... _The battle had been lost and it was too late for retreat._ His breath caught in his throat as his body reacted treacherously to her closeness. Her hand slid from his cheek to his jaw, briefly brushing his chest, she grabbed his collar, her gaze intense. Whatever resolve he had remaining was rapidly slipping, exactly what he both feared and coveted above all else. Christine raised herself onto her toes, her lips hovering perilously near; he could smell the lavender, feel the heat of her breath.

" _P_ _lease..._ Christine, I—"

" _I love you._ " she breathed whilst placing a light kiss to his lips. With a low, strangled moan he turned his head away, scrabbling for purchase, some hope of resistance in a last ditch effort to retain command of his faculties. Unfortunately she was not to be deterred and moved to slowly outline his jaw in kisses. Her hand settled in the middle of his chest, where a fraction of skin was exposed; the contact, small as it was, burned tenaciously and he half-expected his skin to turn to ash beneath her fingers.

"Christine, _please,_ " he implored softly, " _I_ —I cannot hope to control myself if you persist." Erik struggled not to choke over the words. By now, the beauty deserted his voice, rendering it harsh, undone; much like his fleeting control.

" _Give in._ Take me, Erik. I _want_ you, I burn for y—"

Her words acted catalyst and the remainder died in the hungry kiss he bestowed upon her. That kiss, haunting his every moment and movement, sleeping or waking. He knew he shouldn't have done it but was far past caring, the sole thing on his mind was her, nothing else held any significance.

Without another word, he swept her into his arms and carried her up to his bedroom.

* * *

 **And... cliffhanger!**

 **Try not to get out your torches and pitchforks just yet, lol.**

 **For real, though poor Erik never stood a chance, did he?**

 **What did you think of Christine's plan? Did everything work out too easily?**

 **Only one more chapter until an anticipated event happens. :D I'll let everybody speculate on what it is!**

 **Rate and Review, please!**


	37. Seduction

**I know it's been a month since my last update _but_ you guys will be getting at least 3 new chapters this go round. So try not to hate me! Besides, there will be plenty of time to call for my head later on, lol. ;) Basically I started writing and ended up with a lot more than I expected so I had to do some splicing.  
**

 **Word of warning, if you remember where the last chapter left off, we are in M rated territory now. If sexiness isn't your thing, please skip this chapter entirely. I try not to be _too_ explicit but I wanted to mention it just to be on the safe side.  
**

 **Now I shall shut up so you guys can read...**

* * *

The trek to his room seemed shorter than usual, no doubt hastened by the temptation nipping at his heels. He had been careful not to kiss her during the journey, it had nearly proven to be his undoing last time and would have been _had she not mentioned him, that..._

Erik stopped himself from recalling it further and cleared his thoughts of all else but _her_. She worried her lip and twisted her fingers anxiously yet her little quirks did nothing to detract from her divine aspect. Slowly, he brought his hand under her chin and raised her face so as to better study her every feature.

" _So very beautiful_." he murmured, sliding his fingertips over her ivory cheek. A pleasant shiver ran down her spine at the whisper-soft contact, barely a touch yet still with all the effect of a struck match. Her body unconsciously recognized the tightly coiled promise of passion held in his every gesture, the yawn before the inevitable tempest as they beheld one another and the heady weight of which threatened to steal the air from her lungs.

He could look upon her for an eternity, he Narcissus and her dark eyes a reflecting pool, one which captured not the superficiality of a physical image but instead reflected his every good aspect, all of them owing to her: _his Angel and savior_. She was a looking glass reflecting the heavy eyes, breathless anticipation, hesitation of uncertainty, and nervous determination of desire, _his desire_. A looking glass reflecting the humanity she had salvaged and soul they shared, for she was a part of him and he a part of her and soon, _so very soon_ , they would be one.

Like Narcissus he could not pull his eyes away. Entranced, captivated in an ironic reversal of roles he, the Phantom, with a supernatural ability to bend others to his will, to ensnare the mind and dazzle the senses with illusion, was caught fully under the spell of not sorceress or siren, but of a little songbird, no less a temptress in her own right.

Dimly he registered the charged air of her aura as she closed the distance between them, her hands gliding over the planes of his chest to his shoulders, the tingling static harbinger of her lips nearing his bit-by-bit, but still he could neither blink nor look away. Still his stupor remained intact until the shy pressure of her lips brought the rest of the world roaring back into focus; the sound of her measured breathing, the smell of lavender, _of rosewater and femininity_ , the rapid tattoo of her pulse releasing him.

At once the invisible force holding him mesmerized crumbled away leaving only blind longing in its place. Erik's mouth crushed hers savagely whilst his hands moved about her form in a frantic race to possess her entirely. He wanted to tear the nightgown from her body, to loose his anger on the accursed farce of clothing that had at last overcome his long-thinning resolve.

There was a distant, feeble appeal from his sensibility nagging at him to just wait a _smidgen_ longer until they could be wed. Had he been in his rational mind, he might have even heeded it, but in his rational mind he was not. He had endured far too many kisses and impassioned pleas at her behest and had rebuffed them all staying steadfast in his control. Thus he had denied her at every turn, at every beseeching glance, at every appeal. He had denied her when her curious fingers had coaxingly wrapped around him, when she had begged him to make love to her! _Good God_ , he had even denied her when she lay writhing next to him, his hand probing her most intimate of places!

And what had been his reward for such cruel self-denial? _Naught_ _but more torture._

 _To hell with convention! To hell with propriety!_ _Spectre_ , _demon_ , unnatural being though he may be, he was only mortal and could not therefore be expected to endure tests even the gods themselves would fail. _No more resisting!_ Tonight he would have her or die from want.

She must have sensed this breakthrough, _her triumph_ over him. Within her kiss there was an air of victory, a gloat in the way her tongue met his, the hubris of a conqueror present in the way she sucked his bottom lip. Emboldened by conceit over her achievement, Christine backtracked towards the bed, leading him with her. He came willingly, obedient to his Angel's request, deepening the kiss as he stepped forward. In response her hands slid to his waist, tugging his shirt tails free, tongue clashing with his in her impatience to undress him. _Holy Father_ , how she needed him!

Fuelled by a near compulsion, her brash hands dipped into his trousers, groping for that which definitively marked him male. Instantly he stiffened at the surprise assault, stilling completely, his jaw clenching. _The little minx!_ There sounded something halfway between gasp and groan as she began stroking him, her coy yet confident touches threatening to drive him mad. Propelled by shameless instinct Erik pushed himself into her palm, his lips bearing down on hers with renewed purpose.

 _God, what she did to him!_ He gave the taut sphere of her bottom a firm squeeze before moving to engulf her breast with the delightful warmth of his large hand, lightly biting her lip and smoothing the hurt away with his tongue. Instantly her grip on him tightened, he breathed a swear into her open mouth as she drew a lone finger along his length, skimming it. _Exquisite torment._ He would have to put a stop to it before she killed him.

" _Christine_ ," he grimaced, seizing her adventurous hands, "I promise to explore every inch of you, but I wish to take my time."

Her seduction may have proven successful but he would be damned if she set the pace, if she drove him to the brink as she had last time. _No_ , this time he would govern the encounter. It would not be a maddening race for Arcadia, but instead the slow burning taper of a seduction: this time he would savor her wholly. This time she would be at _his_ mercy.

His lips trailed down her jaw, down the graceful curve of her neck, into the hollow of her throat, over the angle of her collar bone with kisses of liquid fire that set her every nerve alight. She let out a moan ahead of the wave of gooseflesh he incited, running her fingers through his hair and pulling his head closer. A wicked thought entered his mind: the damned garment had served her purpose, _now it would serve his._ Erik swept a thumb over her nipple, relishing in the tiny mewl she made, before replacing it with his mouth.

She let out a soft cry of surprise at the hot moisture now soaking through the material, caressing the rigid peak; he suckled it, his tongue moving in harmony with his hand. A distantly familiar ache began in the pit of her stomach, trickling down below her navel where it eventually settled and started collecting. Each flick of his tongue gradually deepened the urgency until he grazed the sensitive nub with his teeth, the linen providing a delightfully rough texture against her stimulated skin, and the ache became a keen throbbing. Christine shifted slightly from the pleasant discomfort, a quick twitch, barely perceptible in its duration yet still he caught it. She felt the crackling surge of electricity as his long fingers traced a line up her inner thigh, the two of them sharing in a wondrous gasp when he reached his destination.

 _So wet and all for him... God Almighty she would be his undoing!  
_

Spurred on by her blatant arousal, he began to stroke her with tantalizing measure barely making contact. Her legs began to shake wildly _—_ reluctant to hold her weight _—_ whether by his callous taunting or out of anticipation, she did not know. The smarting pulse within her surged, churning her stomach and rushing to her head. She felt dizzy, detached, overwhelmed as his touch grew more insistent, _more demanding_ , as he enticed splendid melodies from within her.

Surely she would faint if he continued! And yet she was powerless to intervene, her own selfish, subconscious yearning for liberation silencing her. In simultaneous torment, his thumb encircled the bud of her sex while he raked her nipple between his teeth. At once her quaking legs gave way and she was drawn to him roughly, breaking like a wave over his solid form. Both his lips and hands kept her in the greatest disarray. Caught in this dreadfully delectable purgatory of his making she clawed for purchase and somehow found her voice.

" _No... I-I, please._ " was all she could manage.

He wrenched his mouth from her but kept his hand in place, eyes dancing with mischief. "No?" he repeated, "Do you wish me to stop?"

" _NO!_ " The utterance came far too forceful, she winced. " _I want ..._ " Christine reached for that which she did not know, grasped for a way to quantify her desires and put them to words. Was there a name for the feelings he so easily awakened within her? _Scandalous. Powerful. Frightening. Damnable. Bliss._

" _Yes?_ " His voice was heavy, spoken on an exhale, "What is it that you want?"

" _Y-Your mouth ... on—on my skin. No ... no clothes._ " she stammered, her already affected speech muddling under his continued wicked petting.

His lips quirked haughtily, " _As you wish_ , my dear..."

Slowly, deliberately he undid the ties to her nightgown, placing his palms flat on her chest and sliding it from her narrow shoulders, revealing the tops of her breasts, and wasting no time in peppering the newly exposed skin with kisses, licks, and nibbles. His endless toying was fast wearing thin, she needed ... _needed_ him, _all of him_.

" _Erik ..._ _p-please..._ " she implored pettishly.

" _Please?_ " he echoed against her skin, the vibrations sending another stream of gooseflesh rippling over her.

" _U-Undress m-me_." The command, so out of character, failed to stun her. Embarrassment and modesty were nothing in the face of whatever sinful lust he induced, minnows in an expanse of ocean.

There was the barest hint of a pause, his eyes flashed and in one swift motion he pulled the clothing over her head, letting it drift to the floor. Without reservation she stood in glorious display her every treasure bared to his hungry scrutiny, her perfection defying imagination. Erik fought the urge to fall at her feet, to avert his eyes from a sight surely too pure, too beautiful for the mortal mind to comprehend. To touch her, to taint her sanctitude with his coarse masculinity in that moment would have been sacrilege.

" _Your shirt too._ "

Heedless, spellbound once more he allowed his goddess divine to remove the garment, hardly noticing the way she lingered in her inspection. Christine traced the contours of his whipcord muscles, the scars on his wrists, his arms _—_ the newest addition shiny and pink _—_ with a delicate reverence. So strong, so powerful, so indomitable, yet so tender: _her wonderful, mysterious, dark Angel_.

" _Beautiful._ " she whispered on a stilted breath.

Erik's mouth fell agape in sheer disbelief. Had _this_ ... this ethereal paragon, this flawless sylph just called him, a _monster_ , a _heathen_ , _the personification of death_ , beautiful? It mocked logic, eluded rationale, was she as insane as he? A touch of moisture gathered in his eyes at the declaration of the splendid, yet _clearly_ touched, creature before him. She smiled demurely, cupping his tensed jaw as she quietly spoke his name. Recognizing the intent in her eyes, he gingerly intercepted her hand. Already undone by her unfathomable goodness, he could not bear to be so vulnerable in front of her.

" _No..._ " he plead hoarsely, "Allow me this one scrap of dignity."

The plaintive note of his request was mirrored within gaze and tugged at her soul. When would he learn that his face did not bother her, that she considered every part of him to be utterly amazing? When would he realize, in his infinite genius, that she loved him scars and all? Silently she vowed to show him the depth of her emotions until he dispensed with the accursed mask in her company. Christine knew the task would prove nigh insurmountable but she was determined to make him see himself through her eyes.

Slowly she brought her uninhibited body flush against his, entwining her arms about his neck and instantly she was lost amidst the impregnable majesty of his lean figure, the evidence of his arousal pressing into her stomach, his scent of leather, scotch, spice, and parchment. For a moment she was convinced she had stepped directly into a furnace incinerated by the hunger oozing from his every pore.

He groaned, low, breathy. Her kiss was divinity, her touch paradise, yet not being one with her was most assuredly hell. Hell in _every_ sense of the word. His skin blazed with a forceful heat, every brush of her tongue and fingers acting as kindling for the flames that embodied him, his fortitude fast chipping away.

" _Take me._ "

Within the thick haze of yearning he heard the words float forth on the gentle breeze of a sigh, an echo back to the ones spoken earlier in his study, the ones that had functioned as impetus, that had landed them _here_. He needed not to be told a second time and with fluid grace he lifted her onto the bed. She looked up at him through lowered lashes, her full lips parted enticingly _—wanting, needing—_ both maiden and seductress: _Beauty incarnate_.

Somehow she appeared lovelier than usual, the creamy paleness of her skin contrasting with the dark canvas of his bedding, her curls spreading, flowing over the pillow, _his pillow_... _God_ , _how he wanted her_ , _how he craved her body, spirit, and soul!_

Moved by the vision before him Erik renewed his crusade to venerate her every detail, his lips spreading obeisant homage over the column of her throat, over her arms, her legs, her trim stomach, scattering prayers in the form of kisses all over her snowy flesh. To him she was a shrine and he her penitent devotee. He lavished attention on her breasts, devouring each of the rosy crests adorning them, supping on skin as white and soft as rose petals.

So snug was she in the cocoon of sensation that she failed to notice his kisses trailing lower, her other senses having long-since yielded to touch, pooling their acuity together to enhance his every motion. It was the sharp coldness of the air left in the wake of his hot, questing mouth that refocused her attention. She looked at him wide-eyed, her expression belying a thousand unspoken questions.

Finally she accomplished one, a single, quivering word, " _Erik?_ "

His gaze met hers, shockingly devilish. "Let me worship you, _all_ of you. _Trust me._ "

She had no choice but to lie back in silent assent, shivering as his breath tickled her thighs, shaking when his lips made contact and trailed ever higher. Whatever black magic this was, she wanted it to both end and last forever. His eyes flicked up to hers again, glowing with fiendish satisfaction. Christine wondered at his scheme _until..._

" _Oh—oh God!_ "

A sharp cry rent the air when his mouth latched onto her moist center. The gate of her thighs tried to reflexively snap closed at the unexpected invasion, but her legs soon fell quaking back to the sheets as he drew his tongue along her satin folds. All articulate thought was quickly drowned in the swirling sea of pleasure he evoked. This _couldn't be right_ , _couldn't be proper_ , it had to be a most flagrant sin. She panted, _writhing_ , _fighting_ to break away from the sublime intensity of the nameless wave rising from deep within her.

Meanwhile his tongue continued to weave its dark incantations, slipping inside her most secret place, probing her, compelling her to let go of the hesitance to which she clung. It was agony made exquisite. Christine moaned sharply when he moved to suckle the apex of her sex, running his diabolical tongue over it, she arched against him, squirming indecently in sheer desperation. He cupped her hips holding her to him, to his eager mouth. His exploration persisted, his tongue seemingly determined to map out every fold of her anatomy. The delectable torture rapidly approached its zenith. She was certain she would swoon, certain she would die until something broke loose, snapping like a rope under heavy tension. An immense deluge of relief washed over her startling in its force, flowing throughout her being, swamping each nerve ending and leaving her feeling hollow.

His teasing diversion had done nothing to alleviate his ardor but had instead magnified it to the point of pain. The sight of her twisting body, the sound of her heaving breaths, the sweet tang of her climax and all by his efforts alone set fire to his blood, scalding his soul. There were no thoughts in his head but those of indulging in her, he had crossed the boundary into lust in its most basal form. Taken of greedy madness to experience _all_ of her, Erik hastily stripped off the remainder of his clothing, positive that he had split a seam in his hurry but not at all caring. _All that mattered was her._

He could wait no longer.

Capturing her lips in a sensual kiss, he brought his body over hers. In one thrust he penetrated her with a shuddering gasp, stilling immediately to regain composure. He placed his face in the cradle of her shoulder, showering her neck and ear with kisses. Erik was irrevocably convinced that he had expired for there was no other probable explanation for such divine joy. She enveloped him, a silken shroud, she surrounded him, squeezing him with wet heat. So tight, _so impossibly tight_.

" _God_ ," he rasped, " _you feel heavenly._ "

Glutton for punishment and quite unable to stop again if he tried, he withdrew and reentered her, burying himself to the hilt. Sheathed within her incredible liquid tightness, he found himself battling release. They had only just begun and already he had nearly reached the breaking point. Did she know what she did to him? Nimbly he found his rhythm, composing an ancient duet of sensuality. Both of them taking from and giving to the other, locked in a reciprocal cycle of pleasure. She bloomed for him, a fragile blossom opening under the cloak of darkness, only brought into efflorescence by the cajoling tendrils of his music of the night.

Grasping her bottom for support he plunged deeper. Thrust for thrust she met him in a magnificent duel of flesh. Floating, falling on the billowing breeze of unadulterated sensation, his every stroke a devotional and inscription of possession. There was him. _Only ever him._

Drunk on the potency of carnal instinct she hooked her slender legs around him, the heels of her feet digging into his backside. His fluid movements evolved into a steady, relentless pounding in response to her wordless plea. He held mastery over the unspoken language of her body, attuned to her every sigh, moan, and change in breathing, knowing what she needed better than she. Her legs trembled violently, her body contorted to meld easier to his, the frenzied sparking within her dragged on, trying to ignite... _and then_ , a sudden eruption of flame rose up inside her, its intense heat charging through her every limb, her every extremity. Much like what he had elicited with his mouth but much hotter, much headier, _much more powerful_. She screamed his name at the pinnacle and he answered with his own stuttering cry of release concealed within hers, both of them having reached Elysium within scant seconds of one another.

Long after their rapturous dance had concluded the two of them lay close, hazy eyes locked, continuing to drink in the delight found in each others bodies. Erik drew his hands through her soft curls and over her unmarked porcelain skin marvelling at the difference in texture, while Christine charted the planes of his taut muscles. Neither of them spoke, contented to bask in the glow of the Eden they had together created.

"Is that _where_ —from the duel?" she asked abruptly, running her finger over the scar on his upper arm, its color standing out like a pale pink flower in a field of white; there was a minute furrow where the new skin had knitted itself back together.

"Yes. You once asked to see it, do you recall?"

She blushed and nodded shyly, "Did it hurt terribly?"

He quirked his lip indifferently, "It was only a graze. I've experienced worse."

"Your wrists and back?" The words were out before she could register having spoken at all. Mortified, she clamped a hand over her mouth like she had uttered a terrible oath. "I'm so sorry, _I didn't mean..._ I should _never have ..._ "

Erik regarded her inscrutably, the azure of his eyes revealing neither anger nor misery, "Among other things... As I'm sure you are aware, I've not lived the most _pleasant_ life but dwelling on such is pointless. The past is inconsequential. _You_ are the only thing that currently holds any significance to me."

Quietly she moved to lay her head on his chest. She wanted to cleave to him and extol his every virtue, to tell him everything he meant to her: how he had always possessed her heart, voice, and soul, how nobody past or future had or could compare, how she considered him to be a god among men, regardless of his previous sins... Yet something silenced her tongue, telling her now was not the time for such sentiment. Instead she settled for a simpler testimonial.

"I love you." she murmured, punctuating her declaration with a kiss.

"As I love you." he returned, cradling her gently, incredulous he had attained such a prize.

Within the soft security of each others arms, the two of them allowed the current of sleep to sweep them into the bay of dreams. Neither force of nature nor trivial concerns of men could disturb the two lovers and for the peaceful span of a single night, both were able to forget all else but one another. The looming regatta, the upcoming final concert, the stranger stalking from the shadows, the impending proposal, _the world itself_ all fell away within the blesséd sanctity of their embrace.

* * *

 **Aww, aren't they sweet?**

 **Well, that's that. Not _too_ bad, I hope...**

 **Next chapters (3 or 4) soon to follow. Rate & Review in the meantime? :)**


	38. Trains, Ferries, and Surprises

**So, before we jump into this chapter let's pause for a brief time-line update. :D  
**

 **Right now we find ourselves at the beginning of August 1873 and the start of Cowes Week (August 5-8th if you want specific dates). In modern times Cowes Week is an actual week spanning from the first Saturday _after_ the last Tuesday in July until the following Saturday** **—tides permitting** **—but back in the day, it was only four days: Tuesday-Friday, same time of the month, though. Back then it was also usually referred to as The Royal Yacht Squadron Regatta for the organizing yacht club.  
**

 **Erik's final concert is looming and will take place sometime before The Season ends on the 12th of August, likely on the 10th or 11th.  
**

 ** _And..._ that's us caught up on everything! **

**These next few chapters (there will be at least 2 more coming soon) are on the fluffy side but are necessary for the advancement of the plot _and_ a bit of a fun diversion. Who _doesn't_ like a holiday by the sea? :D  
**

* * *

Christine reclined contentedly in the plush velvet seat whilst listening to Annabelle prattle on about the fun to be had by the seaside. " _Of course_ the focus of the event is on the races but everyone knows the parties are the _true_ highlight of the week..."

There was a loud scoff from the seats opposite them, its origins a mystery to no one. Her eyes moved away from the chattering blonde, briefly sweeping over the sumptuous interior of their First Class compartment and eventually coming to rest on the dour figure clothed in black across from her. Not wishing to disturb he who appeared so deeply invested in his melancholy musings, she continued conversing with her friend.

They were currently en route to the Isle of Wight to witness—and in the case of the men, _participate_ in—the famed Royal Yacht Squadron regatta at Cowes. If the past hour of enthusiastic testament was anything to go on, it was _the_ place to be seen during The Season.

The thought of such filled her with a queer blend of joyful trepidation; she had never experienced anything comparable. Would it be as merry as her friend effused or as abominable as _someone's_ scowl suggested? She was leaning towards the former but perhaps that was simply because the blonde girl's cheerfulness was contagious.

Regardless of what awaited them at Cowes, Annabelle's barely-contained excitement provided an amusing juxtaposition to Erik's dark, irritated brooding. Christine was reminded a bit of a fidgety little sparrow twittering in the branches above a grumpy old owl and was powerless to not giggle at the ridiculous image, an action which thankfully went unnoticed.

"— _and_ there are balls and dinners every evening, I hear it's _such_ great fun. My dear friend, Geraldine told me one meets a host of interesting people throughout the week. _In fact_ , there are those who come from America, France, or even Italy solely for the regatta so the crowd is always very eclectic. _Naturally_ the Royal family will also be in attendance, but that's nothing new as they founded the regatta; the Prince of Wales loves yachting. This year the Russians are supposed to be present as well. I wonder what fashions they will be wearing. Do you think they will be in the Parisian style or cut from the exotic silks of the Orient?"

"You mean you've never been before?" Christine asked in confusion, ignoring the question.

Her friend blushed, "Well _yes_ and _no_. You see, papa brought us most every year but I was disallowed to take part because I was not yet out. _This_ year, however, I will make it my sworn duty that we are both introduced to all of the _best_ aspects." Annabelle grabbed her hands and squeezed, beaming joyfully. She returned the smile eagerly, noticing Erik roll his eyes out of her periphery and stifling the urge to laugh. The next four days were sure to be interesting, of that much she was certain. And if she was to be honest, she was quite looking forward to a seaside holiday with Erik, especially since their last trip to the shore had been nothing short of disastrous.

Following the train ride to the coast they boarded a ferry bound for Cowes. Upon first glance at the large steamer Christine's nerves began to writhe about like serpents in her belly. She vividly remembered her last voyage on such a craft— _remembered the frigid water, the screams, almost being lost under the waves._.. "Come along, Christine, before the ferry departs!" she heard Annabelle call over her shoulder. With an look of wide-eyed apprehension that bordered on panic she walked onto the ship, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"All right there, miss?" a friendly-looking sailor called as she passed, tipping his hat to her.

"Yes." She laughed lightly to downplay her anxiety and relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the railing, "I suppose I am just uneasy."

The sailor gave a sympathetic nod, clearly this was not the first time he had been faced with a weary passenger. Surely it wasn't so uncommon to be nervous when travelling by boat. "There's no need for that, miss. We've only a short crossing and she's a very safe vessel. Besides, look at the sky: blue as a cornflower it is and ain't a trace of weather to be seen. A right fine day for sailing, if you ask me." he flashed her a straight, bright smile and she responded in kind, surveying her surroundings.

It really wasn't _so_ bad. This ship was certainly livelier than the last with its open layout and passengers bustling about and he had been right, there wasn't a cloud in the late afternoon sky. Such a pretty summer day coupled with the mild sea breeze was actually, dare she say it? _Pleasant_ _._

"Look just there," he pointed to a dark smudge jutting up from the horizon, "you can see the Island, miss." Christine felt the heavy knot in her chest begin to unravel, a primitive human response to spotting land while at sea, and at last she was able to somewhat relax. "Thank you for your kindness, it has helped put me at ease." she said graciously, truly glad for the sailor's compassion.

Once again he tipped his hat and grinned. "Make no mention of it, miss. You'll be wanting to rejoin your party soon, the passage should not take more than a half hour."

That's when she realized there was no sign of William, Annabelle, or Erik. What a fool she was for not having kept pace with them! Where had they gone? They had been ahead of her only a moment ago, hadn't they? Her newfound happiness slowly ebbed away, replaced by a surge of alarm. "It seems I've been separated from my companions." she sighed, Madame _had_ always scolded her for being oblivious. There was a massive crowd everywhere she looked and little hope of finding them if they happened to be in the thick of it. Maybe she could just wait by the exit? _Yes_ , that seemed the most promising strategy. She was so caught up in miring over solutions that she barely heard the sailor address her.

"Allow me to help you find them, miss?"

Inside of her mind she had already agreed but her tongue was slower. _Of course she should assent!_ Who better to guide her about the ship than one of its crew? _And yet..._ The boy was nice to be sure but she did not even know his name. How did she know he could be trusted? A pang of regret ran through her at such cynical sentiment. But what of him? He was a sailor, not an usher in the theatre, would he get in trouble for running about the ship helping a silly girl find her friends? Certainly he had duties to which he must attend.

Thankfully she was spared having to answer by the approach of a familiar figure attired in black, his magnificent, towering form impossible to mistake; her heart leapt at the sight. A warm grin spread across her delicate face, "Actually there is one of them now, the man in the dark suit." At the sight of the six and a quarter foot scowl advancing the sailor paled, bidding her a good afternoon and scurrying off. She found she couldn't fault the boy once she too had caught a glimpse of him: to say he was vexed would have been a great understatement. While her smile faded, the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat did not abate; even in anger he held her in complete captivation.

"What did that damn boy want with you?" Erik growled, his narrowed eyes following the retreating figure across the deck much like a cat stalking an insect.

Christine frowned at the outright confrontation. She had grown accustomed to his protectiveness over the years but where it once induced submissive fear it presently only aggravated. No longer was she the shrinking chorus girl from her youth, she was a woman now and could speak to whomever she damn well pleased! "Well, I am _pleased_ to see you too... The sailor was only trying to reassure me, as I was quite hesitant about boarding another boat at first. Must you be such a brute?"

Erik scoffed nastily, "Oh, _yes_. I am sure that was his _only_ design."

" _He_ was _nothing_ but amiable. _W_ _hich_ , I daresay, is a great deal more than can be said for you!" she snapped.

His glare skewered her, blue irises roiling like a stormy sea, " _Perhaps_ you should again seek out his company since you find mine so detestable." The words were spoken dangerously, on a dare. One, on which, she was almost-tempted to take him up, if only to spite his churlish attitude.

She stared back undaunted, their gazes locked in a stubborn impasse, "Well _perhaps_ if you were not in such a beastly mood, I would find your presence enjoyable, but as you are determined to quarrel, I should think a lion better company!"

"Then I suppose it is a _fine_ thing for you that there are so many _amiable_ sailors available to brighten your spirits." he hissed, his expression hardening.

Upon the recognition she was headed into dangerous territory, Christine decided capitulate. Years as his student and beyond, she was well-acquainted with his temper; he was one to hold grudges and she had no desire to ruin the rest of the week for the sake of her pride. So, swallowing such, she decided to change the subject, "Don't be ridiculous! Won't you come inside with me? The breeze is making me cold."

"I am afraid I must decline," Erik sneered, "I've no pressing desire to be cramped amongst the masses like cattle, though I am sure there is many a _bonny_ sailor lad happy to oblige."

Apparently he had seen through her scheme and was hell-bent on being difficult. Ire swelled up within her again. _To hell with him and his tantrums!_ If he wished to be dolorous, let him sulk alone! " _Fine then!_ Suit yourself!" She turned on her heel to walk away but was halted by a hand encircling her arm.

"And just _where_ do you think you are going?"

Christine shot him a look of pure acid. " _I_ am going to take you up on your suggestion and find some more agreeable company." With that she whirled around, snatching her limb from his grasp and marching off to locate William and Annabelle. There she left him glowering at the water with such enmity she was surprised it didn't curdle like milk and muttering what she could only guess was very bad language in a foreign tongue.

[x]

The brougham ride to their lodgings was a quiet contrast to the lively train and crowded ferry journey that followed. It was clear that the long day had taken its toll on each of them, even the normally vivacious Annabelle chose to observe the town passively from the window and the time passed with scarcely a word spoken.

At last the cab came to a halt in front of two houses atop a small hill and Christine found herself mildly relieved there were only three things on her exhausted mind: a bath, a meal, and _Erik_. Though she always enjoyed the company of the two siblings immensely she was looking forward to spending some time alone with him. _Especially_ after what had transpired earlier she was resolved to brighten his atrocious mood, which had done naught in the way of improving: she would certainly have her work cut out for her.

Instantly her mind was flooded with all the ways in which she might accomplish such a feat, some of them markedly unsuitable thoughts for a young, unwed woman of Christian upbringing. And, admittedly she was grateful everybody was too preoccupied to observe the blush that tinted her cheeks.

It was a short walk up a sandy path littered with pavers to the two homes, which, upon closer inspection were actually handsome little cottages. They looked like something out of a fairy tale. She grinned wistfully, remembering the time spent with her papa in the house by the sea and inhaled the cool, salty air; those seasons had been among her best childhood memories. It had been at that house that she first learned to swim and fish and _where she first met..._ her expression deflated at the recollection.

 _Poor, dear Raoul._ Would he have been better off if their paths had never crossed that stormy day on the beach? _Yes. You know he would have been. For one thing, he'd be alive and well, likely with a wife who deserved his devotion_ , her thoughts jeered.

"Look at the little gardens, they are ever so masterfully done! We shall have fresh flowers every day, I'll see to it. Aren't these cottages splendid, Christine?" Her companion chirped brightly, the sight of their dwellings appearing to have banished her earlier fatigue.

"Yes, they _are_ lovely." she admitted.

"I cannot wait to have a look at the furnishings. Would you care to accompany me?" The younger girl looked to Christine questioningly, her large, round eyes eager.

"You may go ahead, Annabelle, I would like to stroll the grounds a bit. I long for some fresh air after a day spent travelling."

Annabelle's eyes darted from the brunette to the dark silhouette studying the landscape some feet away and smirked coyly, "Oh, yes, _of course_. I suppose a bit of nightly _exercise_ always does one good..." she said a tad too sweetly, leaving no doubt as to her insinuation, "Come, brother, escort me inside."

With the two siblings engrossed in inspecting the accommodations, she made her approach. It was not yet dark, the long days of late summer held the early evening in an almost perpetual twilight. The shadows coupled with the fiery orange sky lent his figure an intriguing contrast. There was a small pause before Erik turned to her. Would he suggest the very same things she had been imagining? Was that what had been going through his head as he stood there admiring the view? He grabbed her hand and her breath hitched as she looked up at him. "Here." he said flatly, placing a piece of cold metal in her palm. "What is it?" came her automatic response.

He released her hand, his tone still detached, "Your key."

"Why are you giving me this? Don't you have one? I hardly think we will be separated long enough to where I would have need, unless it is to the bedroom." She raised a brow and laughed in what she hoped was an endearing manner to cover up the boldness of her comment but he remained unaffected. Was he still upset about the situation with the sailor?

"I have the key to my _own_ cottage, _yes_."

Her smile faltered, "What do you mean when you say _your_ cottage?"

He huffed in annoyance, "I am aware that you are not yet comfortable with English, but I would think you would have grasped the difference between the two determiners by now: 'my' refers to something belonging to the one speaking whereas 'your' indicates that which belongs to the addressee."

Christine rolled her eyes, less than amused by his astringent remark, "Thank you for that valuable lesson, Erik, but we cannot all have _your_ mastery of language."

" _Indeed_ , it appears not."

Resisting the urge to strike him, she gritted her teeth and rephrased her query, " _I meant_ , why are you referring to the cottage as yours when we will be staying under the same roof?"

One look at his scowl told her his tolerance was wearing thin and she wondered what had put him into such a foul temper. Surely it could not solely be their earlier squabble, after all he had been like this since they left London. "Do not labor under the impression that I misspoke, I assure you I did not. I provided you with a key of your own because we are not cohabitating, you will be staying with Annabelle and a chaperon as is the custom."

" _C-_ _Chaperon...?!_ " she echoed the word with distaste, taken completely by surprise. From where did this mad idea stem?

All of her previous elation drained from her like water through sand, she felt shaky and small. Had she truly offended him so much that he wanted time apart? Her imagined seaside paradise was rapidly washing out with the tide. Just when she thought they had worked through their problems, he was right back to pushing her away and into the arms of a ... a _chaperon_? Her brief confusion was quickly replaced by a white-hot surge of anger. She wasn't a toy he could simply put onto a shelf when he tired of it!

"I am _hardly_ in need of a chaperon, Monsieur, as I am _hardly_ a maid." she snorted, jabbing her finger into his chest, "A fact to which _you_ can attest! Need I remind you that I am also widowed?"

"I do not require any additional _reminders_ of your previous life, _Madame le Vicomtesse_." he spat savagely, infusing the last with venomous contempt and brushing her hand away.

Refusing to yield, she narrowed her eyes and persisted, "So then why must I have a chaperon?"

"I would _think_ that a Vicomtesse of _all_ people, would understand these frivolous societal constructs or need I remind you that a lady of your _circumstances_ is expected to be removed from society for a year and remain in mourning for two? During which time any _dalliances_ would devastate her chances of securing future matches or connections." His lips curled in caustic mockery.

"Funny you should take issue with that _now_..." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, uncaring how crass she sounded.

"You try my patience with your ridiculous childish assertions."

"I am _not_ a child!" she bit out furiously, stamping her foot.

A cruel smile spread across his face, " _Yet_ your behavior proves otherwise..."

She lowered her head, cowed by the truth in his reprimand; he hadn't yelled or even raised his voice but he hadn't needed to; his words were plenty cutting and, _worse yet_ , they had been correct. In her guilt, or lack thereof, for betraying Raoul's memory, she had lashed out. Such a shameless, vapid creature was she!

 _Raoul..._ He had given her his blessing to be with Erik, so why did he continue to haunt her?

 _Probably because it was your fault he was killed. Had you acknowledged your heart sooner, had you not toyed with so many others like a kitten with yarn... there would not have been a rooftop kiss or engagement, never would there have a duel in the cemetery, and Don Juan would have never come to pass._ She had been the author of her own unhappiness and nobody else could claim responsibility. What a ridiculous fool of a girl she had been!

A tear ran down her cheek. _No!_ She wouldn't dwell on such things... despite all that had transpired, she couldn't bring herself to regret the present. The opera fire and Raoul's death—however tragic—had been accidents, _terrible_ accidents.

Erik regarded the beauty before him and was overrun by a creeping sense of remorse upon observing her sorrow. She had been right in her previous assessment, he really was a brute. It was solely his fault that she now cried. _What else did you expect would come of such loutish behavior_ , a voice inside his head chided, strangely it bore a remarkable likeness to that of Antoinette Giry. Curse his damnable temper! He ran a hand through his hair and took a cleansing breath.

"Christine..." His countenance softened, "I apologize for my boorishness."

He brushed a curl off her trembling cheek, "Please understand that these arrangements are necessary." He ran his fingers along her jawline with a plaintive sigh before continuing, "Cowes Week is not a dinner party nor is it a night at the symphony, it is a heavily reported spectacle exactly as Annabelle says. Were we to be seen together in any sort of _compromising_ manner it would be fuel for gossip, rest-assured, but to reside together would prove the height of impropriety. This is not London, I've no influence to call upon nor can the servants be trusted to discretion, we must tread carefully for the duration of our stay."

Even as he said the words he felt incredibly foolish, the height of hypocrisy! Here stood a man who once rejected society, choosing instead to live in the solitude of an underground lair, now preaching the importance of social etiquette. From her wounded expression it seemed she too had picked up on the irony.

Would she call him out over the fact? He exhaled wearily. Although he enjoyed her newfound fiery temptress' ways, he found himself missing the obedient opera mouse who didn't fight him at every turn.

She frowned, chewing her lip in thought, "I understand." she said after consideration.

Had he heard correctly? Was she not going to debate him on this subject? His initial relief evaporated when he saw the sadness return to her lovely, dark eyes. "This is not meant to be a punishment. Believe me when I say would that I could, we would not only share a roof but also a bed." His voice came heavy, hoarse, "However, the decision is not mine. This is the easiest course for all involved."

Christine eyed him with tired resignation. Loath as she was to admit it, she knew him to be correct. Few souls knew of her status as a widow and it was best not to advertise the fact, lest questions arise or— _G_ _od, forbid_ —she was recognized. If the truth was discovered she risked ruining more than just her reputation. It was better if she blended in with all of the other young, unmarried girls; in the grand scheme of their schmoozing and grappling for husbands, she would pass unnoticed. She wondered if her guardian would be privy to her secret, _which begged the question..._

"Who is to be my chaperon?" Wracking her brain, she could not think of a single person within her current acquaintance who could fill the role. To her knowledge Erik's friends were bachelors, meaning they had no wives to play the part. In fact, the only older woman she knew was Mrs. Foley and _surely_ a housekeeper could not serve in such a capacity... _or could she?_ Admittedly she was unclear how such things worked, back at the opera house Madame had always performed the duty.

"She is a cousin of the Harland siblings, a Mrs. Gardiner, I believe." Noting her crestfallen face he added, "You were not the only one left in ignorance, William believed it best if—"

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by a sudden cry of outrage. A nearby door slammed and raised voices sliced through the peacefulness of the evening. She cocked her head in bewilderment while Erik did not appear the least bit surprised. " _Ah_ , it appears Annabelle has just learnt the identity of your chaperon as well..." he explained with a smirk. Christine opened her mouth to inquire after his meaning but the approaching clamor rendered such an action needless.

" _I cannot believe you would stoop to such treachery!_ " Annabelle exclaimed indignantly, her normally flawlessly-coiffed, golden hair strewn about her face wildly.

A second person pursued at her heels. "Sister, _please_ , certainly you know a chaperon to be a virtual requirement for any eligible young woman out in Society!" William implored, evidently flustered.

Engrossed in their heated argument, neither sibling noticed nor cared— _the more likely scenario_ —that they weren't alone. The blonde spun around to face him, "Oh, of _that_ I'm _well_ aware! Do you honestly think the idea of a chaperon is what peeves me?" He gave an ambivalent shrug. "No, what infuriates me, _dear_ brother, is _your_ choice of chaperon! Horrid cousin Josephine?! _A_ _re you mad_?!" Her voice went shrill with rage as she uttered the rhetorical question.

Some feet away, Christine and Erik exchanged equal looks of confusion over the scene unfolding in front of them. It was nigh impossible to imagine a person as ebullient and sweet as Miss Annabelle Harland to be in possession of such a fierce temper, yet here she was with a bluster to rival the Phantom himself.

Her brother let out a dismissive chuckle, "You are overreacting, Annabelle. You say that about _all_ of father's relations..."

" _That,_ is because they are _all_ of them abhorrent!" she retorted viciously, "Did you never wonder why papa told us he didn't come home over school holidays? It was because he was surrounded by such _dreadful_ relatives at every turn that he found writing lines under the Provost's scowl preferable!"

William sighed, "I'll admit she can be ... _disagreeable_ at times but regardless of how you feel about cousin Josephine, the arrangement has already been made. Sir John and Colonel Crawford agreed to escort her here from the ferry since they arrived and settled in yesterday. They should not get in for two hours at least so you needn't tolerate her company for very long, dear sister."

No sooner had he capped off his statement with a nervous smile that the unmistakable clomp of horses and rattling of carriage wheels could be heard. She speared him with her glare and uttered a long, keening groan before disappearing into one of the cottages.

Only after she was gone did William turn to the two bystanders, "Terribly sorry you two had to witness that," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "I knew she would be opposed but I had no idea of the extent. I believe you two met our great-aunt at Annabelle's ball earlier this summer?" Erik retained his air of stoicism but Christine nodded slightly, remembering the dreadful old woman far too well. "Our cousin Josephine is her youngest daughter."

"... _And the apple is every bit as ghastly as the tree from which it fell._ " Annabelle added bitterly, rejoining them; the blonde girl was once more impeccably styled leaving no evidence of her fit apart from the uncharacteristic frostiness marring her pretty features.

Christine swallowed thickly and looked to each of her companions. There was not a single word said as the cab rumbled into sight but all three of the gazes she met—one of apprehension, one imbued with cold fury, and the last casually aloof—held the same message:

 _Tonight was going to be a long night._

* * *

 **I know this chapter is a lot of filler but it was a convenient place for a split. Hopefully the next few chapters are more interesting.**

 **Poor Erik is just not having a very good day, is he? At least this boat ride went a lot smoother than the previous one, right?  
**

 **Who knew sweet Annabelle had such a temper? Lol, I am reminded of Uni-Kitty from _The Lego Movie_ for whatever reason.**

 **Looks like another terrible relative on the horizon. Don't you hate those? Do you think cousin Josephine will truly be as bad as all that? I suppose you'll find out soon enough in the next chapter. ;)**


	39. Good News and Hopeful Futures

**seraph12 - Thanks! I wanted a change of pace and thought English society would afford what I was after, also I know more about it so there is _that_. As for your question about Erik being accepted into English society with the mask, I suppose a 'because I said so' won't suffice? Lol! In all seriousness, it is a _good_ question so I will address it here. **

**Going off of Kay (which I used for his background) and the movie, Erik never really tried for acceptance in French society. He was at best indifferent and at worst contemptuous towards it, which is why he chooses to build his home underground. If I hadn't used the movie as a starting point, I don't think having him living amongst men would have worked, but because I did (and because of the manner in which he and Christine parted) I think it feasible; Christine's kiss changed him, it humanized him.**

 **I mentioned the circumstances that brought him to England at the beginning of the story but as a refresher: he won the public contest to design the new London concert hall. Given his status as a wanted man, perceived lack of a future in Paris, and long-time desire to design something so grand, he would have accepted without reservation. Of course he would have naturally been averse to socializing upon his arrival but that wariness would have subsided a tad when he made some acquaintances, namely Sir John and Colonel Crawford and later William and Annabelle.**

 **Eventually his work and published compositions cultivated the public's respect and they saw him as an eccentric (like a most geniuses) with a romantic air of mystery about him. I feel like English society during the time was more stoic and constrained than that of France, so it was more of a matter of accepting him and his brilliance and just not (publicly) discussing the mask. I touched a bit on the speculation behind why he wears it in the chapter where we meet Annabelle's great-aunt. They had no reason to fear him and chose to pay more attention to his achievements than his odd appearance.  
**

 **I would also like to clear some things up... Erik was not out and about in Society by _any_ means. He has the concert hall but that's about it; other than a few meetings (most of which are delegated to Reginald and John) he usually keeps to himself. Which you can see by the fact that he only has one full-time servant, where as a normal man of his wealth would have had many. His reclusive behavior lessens a bit when he reunites with Christine but still they attend far less events than other people of Society would have during The Season; and most of the ones they go to are solely _because_ they are directly invited and because he thinks it will please her. I hope this answers your question satisfactorily and thank you for your reviews! :)**

 **Now without further ado... I present to you another chapter, we're still moving plot along but I enjoyed writing the dialogue in this part. _Plus_ , you guys are getting 2 more chapters. ;)  
**

* * *

Three days there had passed since they first arrived on the island and all three of those evenings had brought them to a different party, each celebration more lavish than its predecessor. Three days of colorful gowns and even brighter spinnakers. Each morning, Annabelle would rouse the household so they could spend the better part of the day watching the races: the first day had been for Her Majesty's Cup, the second for the Town Cup, and the third for the Challenge Cup.

Her friend had been correct, this event was much more exciting than she could have ever imagined. Despite knowing nothing of yachting, Christine found herself following every race with bated breath; clapping when one boat overtook another, gasping whenever there was a near-collision, and cheering as the top three vessels rounded the mark. It was quite easy to see the appeal of the sport.

In fact, on the very first day she had been astounded by the sheer variety in watercraft; from the magnificent Royal yachts to the smallest dinghy and everything in between, all filled the Solent strutting about proud as peacocks. Still more numerous than the boats, were the people.

Thousands of people, both common and borne of Society, flooded the quaint seaside town. When they weren't watching the races, they were surveying the various wares the vendors had to offer or— _in the case of a majority of the well-bred ladies_ —flitting from cottage to cottage for social calls. Christine and Annabelle had been amongst the latter group, paying visits to several of the blonde's friends for luncheon, tea, or conversation.

Even these gatherings were so far a pleasant experience, if only a bit droll; the whole business bore a striking similarity to her previous life as a Vicomtesse—though, Annabelle's acquaintances were a great deal _more_ likable than anyone she met through her late husband—there was still the sense of suffocating boredom that accompanied such functions. However, the evenings more than provided recompense for the monotony of the afternoons that acted as a bridge between the morning excitement and nighttime conviviality.

For the entire Solent seemed to come to life in the dwindling hours of the late summer days and thrive under the brilliant bursts of nightly fireworks.

Extravagant and exclusive parties were held both in the larger houses and aboard the finer yachts. Never had she witnessed anything comparable, it all made her feel rather like a child beholding the majesty of a world exhibition. Her wide-eyed wonder was mirrored by Annabelle, who doubtlessly could not have truly conceived such a display, regardless of what she had heard from friends. In a way Christine was glad for this because it meant they could share in the novelty of it all together on equal ground.

Annabelle's name and fortune had gotten them through the door but under the tents and within the walls both girls blossomed in equally stunning array, drawing the attention of several young gentleman. Numerous years of ballet training were reawakened as soon as Christine stepped foot onto the parquet, each step and turn thawed the part of her that had learnt to dread dancing after leaving the opera.

Raoul's family had taken _that_ from her in addition to her dreams of singing, they had taken everything and moulded her into a pretty, little doll encased in protective glass, fit only to be admired—not for _her_ benefit, but for theirs. It was all well and good to support the arts, as long as one was not expected to welcome an artist into their parlor. They had made it clear that _her_ style of dancing was little better than burlesque, no matter if it was a two-step or a quadrille. In England, at first by her Angel's side, and now here at Cowes without the scrutiny of Raoul's relatives she at last felt liberated, not even her hard-nosed chaperon could do anything to dampen her spirits.

These soirees might have been counted amongst the grandest times of her life had they not been missing one crucial thing: _him_. With the exception of the first day, Erik hadn't even been present at the races, much less any parties. But then, _none_ of the men had. According to William, whom they intercepted laden with parchment one morning, they were far too preoccupied with preparations for their upcoming race. _'_ _You must understand, sister_ , _we are none of us yachtsmen so we must learn as much as possible in order to make for an efficient crew.'_ said he, puffing out his chest.

Although she and Annabelle were certainly kept busy, Christine couldn't completely stave off the pang of loneliness that accompanied Erik's absence. The only evidence she had received of his continued presence among the living was his silhouette in the neighboring window late each night. It was all she could do to watch him covertly wondering what he was doing and whether or not she was in his thoughts. She didn't dare attempt to draw his attention or, _heaven forbid_ , pay him a visit with wicked, old Mrs. Gardiner circling about like a vulture. Besides, it would be foolish to take such a risk when the men would be joining them for a late dinner on the eve of the race; she would simply have to wait 'til then and, _if she was being honest_ , she had waited far longer for him.

[x]

Sir John made his way to the docks, a distinctive gusto in his stride, the stroll back was _certainly_ of a more leisurely persuasion than the one to the Clubhouse had been. _Good God_ , he had been dreading the bloody meeting all week! The wait over the committee's decision regarding his fate in the race had weighed heavily on him these last few days.

While he had still made all of the necessary efforts, he had done so halfheartedly, not knowing whether they would even be allowed to compete. Over the past three sleepless nights he had cursed his masked friend several times for insisting on the blasted refit that put their qualification status in jeopardy. The damn yacht had been fine to begin with, he had said, but Erik thought otherwise and had been determined to overhaul the boat completely. Naturally he had agreed because if he had learnt anything during their friendship, it was just better to assent and leave it at that.

 _Well, fine place it had landed them!_ In fact he had almost forgotten about the renovation until he received the note from the Squadron committee informing him that his craft's _'unconventionality_ _'_ necessitated a review of its eligibility. He had relived the damn conversation that had gotten him into this mess almost every minute since...

* * *

 _"You've unveiled a host of problems with the vessel, I presume?" he inquired, removing his hat and placing it on the table alongside the one that already rested there._

 _"Only one of note."_

 _Count on Erik to be cryptic for the purpose of drama. Sir John sighed and downed his glass of scotch, motioning for another; he had a feeling he was going to need it. He gestured for the other man to continue, "Well, by all means..."  
_

 _"Would you like me to be frank?"  
_

 _"Aren't you always?"_

 _Erik smirked. "Very well then... Regarding her current specifications, a dinghy without oars would stand a better chance of winning." He paused to let the words sink in. John eyed his companion in confusion. Winning? Hadn't the composer been loath to sail with him in the first place? Why should he care if they won or not?  
_

 _His face must have given as much away because he received a reply without asking._

 _"If I am to be forced to take part in this spectacle, I wish to at least make it worth my while. I have no intention of appearing ridiculous, Norton."_

 _He rolled his eyes, Erik's pride could always be counted on. "So you mean to win? What do you propose be done to give us the advantage over the aforementioned oar-less dinghies?"_

 _"She must be refitted."_

 _Again with the ambiguity! At this rate he would die of suspense. "Refitted? In what manner?" Though he wasn't exactly sure what the word meant with reference to boats, his question sounded to him general enough that it would not reveal his ignorance.  
_

 _"I have scrutinized the material you provided me and your uncle keeps impeccable records, clearly you've inherited no such fastidiousness." His lip quirked wryly, "The vessel was built just four years previous: she is a cutter, gaff-rigged, as is the typical configuration; and, according to every calculation I've made, decidedly the reverse of rapid."  
_

 _"You ascertained that just from the records I gave you?" John cut in, amused._

 _"I do not need to see her in action to know that a yacht with her sail area and material, rigging, dimensions, and tonnage was built for cruising and therefore would not be overly expeditious. Fortunately for you that defect can be sufficiently remedied with some clever adjustments."_

 _Already there was a sense of dismay building up in the pit of his stomach._

 _"Adjustments?"_

 _"Foremost, she needs new sails; flax is never used for racing, she'll need sails of Egyptian_ — _better still, Sea Island_ — _cotton. Her dimensions are nothing remarkable, however were she to be rigged differently and her keel plated with lead or iron ballast, she could prove a formidable challenger." The masked man paused in thought, "Yes... a taller, hollow mast would allow for the increase in sail area and_ —"

 _"What is wrong with the current gaff-rigging? Did you not say that it is typical of racing yachts?"_

 _"Yes and a hundred years ago it was 'typical' for physicians to believe that all illnesses were caused by an imbalance in bodily humors..." Erik sneered, "Commonality is a convenient excuse for mediocrity. This new rigging will drastically improve her performance."_

 _"Surely so many engineers and sailors cannot be wrong..."_

 _"Nor are my calculations." he responded succinctly.  
_

 _He did have a point. If anybody could pull off these modifications, it was Erik._

 _"All right, you've convinced me dear chap. What is this novel rigging you've devised?"_

 _His friend grinned rather ominously, "I have devised nothing, it's been in use elsewhere for the better part of two hundred years. Tell me, have you read much about the colony of Bermuda, John?"_

* * *

Hindsight had repeatedly admonished him for having should have known better. _But it was irrelevant now._ The committee was allowing him to compete with no additional handicap other than the time allowance applied to all vessels. Tomorrow would reveal if it had all been worth the headache, uncertainty, and contemptuous looks.

 _Yes_ , tomorrow would be the true adjudicator _and if they won... If_ Erik had been correct and they won. _Well, he might just kiss the crazy, masked bastard._

Buoyed by thoughts of victory and grandeur, there was nothing in the world that could ruin his mood. That is until he caught a glimpse of the figure sprinting towards him from the docks, flailing its arms and shouting:

" _Sir! Sir!_ Yer needed aboard this instan'!"

He halted, observing the frantic, winded lad running towards him with mild detachment: it was one of the younger crew members. Distantly he mused at what could possibly elicit such a panic; his absence had barely spanned half an hour! Time slowed as both parties closed the space between them, he at a brisk walk and the boy at full tilt.

"It's Collins, right?" John posited, waiting for the crewman to catch his breath; he received a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Very good. What is the meaning of this, Collins? I can't have been gone long enough for you to sink her!" His smirk faded with the realization that he very well could have been. _How long did a vessel take to go down exactly?_ He hadn't the slightest inkling.

" _N-No_ ... no sir. A b-brawl!" Collins panted, slightly pop-eyed with the exertion.

 _At least the yacht was still afloat..._

"A fight? Amongst the crew?"

The lad shook his head vigorously. "No ... sir, it's _one_ ... one of yer m-mates, _he's—_ " His expression seemed to say, _'three guesses as to which one'_.

Knowing there was only one possible culprit he swore with such violence that several passing ladies shot him a glare of incredulous disapproval. Without further speculation, he set off, his hat tucked in the crook of his arm, " _Well, come along then, boy!_ Have you lead in your trousers?" he shouted over his shoulder.

It was scarcely a two-minute run, yet the deluge of horrifying thoughts lapping at his mind lengthened the distance considerably. Of all the times, it _had_ to be the day before the race!

 _Good God, Erik, could you not have waited one day more to murder whomever displeased you?_ he asked himself, prompting a mad chuckle. Surely it couldn't as bad as all that? He was struck with a sobering concept, despite his being an attorney, his specialty was in contract and inheritance law; more than likely he would be wholly useless to help his friend avoid the noose. A sudden stream of light parted the clouds of his previous bleak notion: _Reginald was there_. All would be well, _more or less_.

His nerves calmed slightly by this knowledge, he slowed and rounded the corner to where his vessel sat moored, young Collins in tow. The pair were a scant twenty yards away when they heard the shouting, but it was not Erik's voice that greeted them.

" _—KNOW NOTHINK O' SAILING!_ _BLASPHEMY_ IS WHAT THIS IS!" The words were issued loud and slurred, whomever had a quarrel was clearly inebriated.

" _This_ is the future of sailing, a fact which the Bermudans have long-since recognized." a familiar voice hissed dangerously.

" _YA RUINED HER,_ A BONNY SHIP, AN' MADE HER IN'TA ... _A DEVIL_!"

"If you truly think so, _you_ are more than _welcome_ to redraft my equations." came the scathing retort.

John stepped aboard, sucking in a relieving breath, his previous good disposition returning. _This_ was the cause of all the commotion? A simple disagreement? It was downright laughable!

Erik stood, arms crossed indolently, his expression haughty; he towered nearly a foot over the older man, whom continued his ruddy-cheeked, nonsensical bluster. The rest of the crew surrounded the spectacle, each man sure to keep a wary distance from the navigator; with the exception of Reginald and William— _though_ the latter looked quite apprehensive. It was no secret that most of the men were afraid of him, those who weren't were either witless or liars.

He chose that moment to make his presence known. "Is there something the matter, chaps?" The red-faced seaman whirled to face him, narrowly keeping his balance; he reeked of spirits and stared the solicitor down through glassy eyes, "I won' work with the likes of _him_." he bit out, the ultimatum in his voice clear as crystal. It was to be either one man or the other, the decision was _strikingly_ easy to make.

"I'm grieved to hear that, sir."

The old sailor looked at him agape before dissolving into a fit of coarse laughter, exposing only a handful of teeth, "Ya _lords_ and _sirs_ so high an' mighty in yer big houses an' yacht clubs. Yer all o' ya fools! Ain't a'one worth his salt, mark me. An' yer gonna let this pass?" The last was addressed to the skipper, who stood silently by, his mouth set in a grim line. "We all of us are in Sir John Norton's employ, the choice isn't mine to make, but if it were I _would_ remind you of my stance on drink, Mr Simmons."

"Gutless to th' last!"

Simmons spat at the captain's feet. " _FOOLS_ , th' lot o' ya! Yer gonna meet a bad end, _m'lord_ , ya and tha' _devil_!" he ranted, pointing to Erik, who took a menacing step forward, happy to accept the challenge. John's eyes narrowed, "Kindly get off my boat, _sir_." he ordered through gritted teeth. The man complied, turning once he reached the dock, " _Yer_ gonna go th' same way as th' _Normandy..._ _I_ _f_ ya even make it to th' Needles." With that, he stumbled away in a cloud of raucous laughter.

 _Disaster, indeed_... he snorted. The old loon had _certainly_ been correct on that front. He had already been shorthanded with regards to crew, now he had lost a crucial member. Drunk or not, the man had been the tactician, the one whom oversaw the sail position while racing. A once-celebrated situation now grew bleaker by the minute, they'd be lucky if they managed to finish the race.

"Haven't you all preparations to undertake for tomorrow?!" he snapped, his harsh words dispersing the crew.

" _And_ you..." he boldly rounded on his masked friend, " _Damn it_ _man_ , was the whole of that necessary?" Erik glowered fiercely but said nothing.

Once the men had gone back to their tasks and Erik to his collection of various charts and maps, the skipper approached John, "Things aren't as _dire_ as Mr Simmons would have you believe and I'm glad to see him gone. I was never fond of that wretch, but your uncle wouldn't dismiss him. When he wasn't in a bottle he was off wenching, gambling or engaged in whatever disreputable activity ruled the night. I've spoken with the crew, my men are more than willing to take up the extra work and Colonel Crawford has an impressive knowledge of sailing; we will give it our all, sir."

"I am grateful to hear it, dear chap." And he meant it. The captain's words had blown away some of the somberness clouding his emotions. _Maybe_ it wasn't a fruitless endeavor after all.

" _Of course_ , sir. As for your navigator, he's an awfully _draconian_ fellow, but he knows what he is doing. It is my understanding that he was the one responsible for the refit. And what an idea he's had!" he chuckled, "Have you travelled to Bermuda, sir?" The solicitor shook his head, recalling when a certain _'draconian fellow'_ had asked a similar question; he was helpless not to smirk at such an apt description of Erik. "Well, _I have_ , during my time with the navy, and every ship large and small is configured in such a way. The 'Bermudan sloops' as they are called are nigh unmatched in speed and maneuverability; they were once favored by pirates and smugglers. I've only ever seen these vessels from a distance in some of the island races and I am rather looking forward to sailing one."

"Your man has done a first-rate job. The ship's new sails are of the finest cotton I've ever seen, her mast is strong yet light and the added ballast on her keel affords great balance. She handled handsomely on the voyage from Lowestoft. Naturally the men are wary of racing her since she has not been proven but I believe she will rise to the challenge and then some."

John stared at the weather-worn face of the man beside him and offered a genuine smile. "Your testament has soothed my apprehension, Mr Gibson, and for that I am abundantly thankful. As for tomorrow... it's in God's hands now, I daresay."

The skipper nodded, "Aye, sir, _that_ it is."

* * *

 ***The _Normandy_ was a mail-steamer that sank off the Isle of Wight in 1870 after colliding with another ship.**

 **Okay, so we didn't get to meet the awful cousin this chapter but I promise we will next chapter. Sorry, I already had the first few paragraphs written and was pleased with them as an introduction so I elected to leave things as they were. Get ready though; she's a _real_ treat. **

**I hope the fates smile upon Sir John's ship! We will find out soon enough if they do... ;)**

 **A/N: I definitely had a vision for this chapter before writing it which made it harder when the information didn't match up to what was in my mind. Normally I would have changed it but I was adamant about keeping the story the way I had pictured it, mostly to give Erik more of a role. This chapter is all about Sir John's yacht race, the one he coerced Erik into back in ch. 30. I figured John would just think of it as a fun distraction, rather than being seriously competitive about it. Whereas Erik would research endlessly and do what he could to ensure they wouldn't look like idiots: thus enter the refit.  
Now let me talk some boring sailboat talk at you... ;)**

 **Historically all cutters (sailboat with one mast and 2 head sails instead of 1 like a sloop) were gaff-rigged (a pole that comes off the mast at an angle and is attached to the top sail, separate from the main sail) but since we are talking about Erik here, I believed he would definitely eschew tradition.**

 **In the mid-20th century the gaff-rig was all but replaced by the Bermuda rig (one large main sail attached to the mast instead of a separate head sail/main sail). Bermuda rigs date back to the 1600s (guess where? lol) and their small cutters/sloops were extremely fast and well-known by pirates, islanders, smugglers, and even the US government. One of the biggest differences in appearance between a gaff and Bermuda rigged cutter is in the mast (the mast on the latter is noticeably taller than the former) and the single large triangular main sail. Seeing a racing yacht in such a configuration would have been unheard of and likely disqualified post-1875 (when the yacht racing rules were established).**

 **I felt that was right up Erik's alley, something novel, something innovative, something ahead of the times, and something frowned upon. I based the refit off of what would later become the J-class racing yachts in the 20th century. Finally I thought it would be interesting to touch on a third party's opinion of the boat/race so you will get that a few chapters down the line.**


	40. The Chaperon

**Here comes the awful chaperon, someone should probably get a house to drop on her, quick-like.  
**

 ** _And_ so the adventure continues... **

* * *

Later that evening, their cheeks still slightly flushed from dancing, the girls were hurried straight into the cottage where the rest of their dinner party awaited. Christine immediately found Erik's eyes, ripe with their usual intensity, but she quickly averted her gaze before her chaperon took notice; the brief glance deepened her blush and she hoped it had gone unobserved.

Fortunately, Josephine was still muttering under her breath about _'unconventionality'_ and _'insufferable lateness'_ and saw nothing. "Cousin William, I am _dreadfully_ sorry for our severe lack of punctuality, our driver elected to take the scenic route back. These little people and their foolish misgivings... it's inexcusable! He might as well have had lame ponies pulling us along for the time it took! I hope you weren't kept waiting too long and that dinner will not be served cold as a result of our tardiness." she declared in her usual histrionic manner.

William stared at her, unable to formulate an appropriate response; clearly he had not the energy to deal with his cousin. Luckily Reginald came to his rescue. " _Not at all_ , Mrs Gardiner! Your concerns are needless, we've only just arrived. May I escort you through to the dining room? I'm afraid it's quite small, but we should all manage to fit." she eyed him guardedly before accepting his proffered hand with a haughty sniff.

As soon as the two of them had disappeared Annabelle let out an exaggerated sigh, " _Oh dear_ , William, _however_ could we all bear it if the potatoes were cold? _And_ if the meat or soup had chilled, _why_ , it would be a tragedy equal to that of the great flood!" she whimpered in a perfect imitation of her cousin, clapping the back of her hand to her forehead for added effect.

Unfortunately her brother was not in the mood to jest and sternly ordered her to hold her tongue before walking off, leaving the four of them in silence. Once a grumpy William had left, John leaned towards Annabelle, "I personally thought it was spot on, _well done_." She pursed her lips, "He always gets into such an ill-humor whenever our relatives are about..."

"I cannot say that I blame the lad, keeping Mrs Gardiner as company seems quite a feat of endurance; I was only in her acquaintance for a short while the other night and I just _barely_ triumphed. I haven't the foggiest clue how you two have managed it these past three days... However, in spite of your unfortunate circumstances, you both look very well. I dared not speak on the subject whilst your cousin was in the room lest she place me in irons." he said with a wink and grin.

"It _has_ been most trying, but we shall persevere," Annabelle exhaled and started towards the door, "now we had better go through before she grows suspicious."

" _You look lovely_."

Christine's heart fluttered unconsciously at the silken familiarity of the compliment and she turned to see Erik standing beside her.

"And you as well." she returned, her breath quickening. There was a pregnant pause as the two beheld one another for the first time in three days. To each of them there existed nothing else but the other; neither knew how long they remained like that, eyes locked communicating what mere words could not, _until..._

"You two should come along, I don't much fancy being clapped in the pillory." John interposed wryly, breaking through their entrancement. Though irritation briefly colored his features, Erik quickly regained his composure and allowed the other man to lead the way to the dining room with a curt nod.

[x]

Dinner— _the actual meal_ —was delightful and no sooner had they sat down than Josephine began discussing at length every detail of the function from which they had just come. "It was as splendid an affair as any, _although_ Lady Brackley's abilities as a hostess _have_ always left something to be desired; but, you know some of us are simply _not_ gifted with _easy_ manners. Her cottage was rather small and plain and a majority of the function was held outside, of course I thought the ground _much_ too soft for any fine dancing..."

After prattling on well into the main course, she suddenly changed tack, " _Well_ , Colonel Crawford, I _do_ hope you and your boys are prepared for tomorrow's race. In my conversation with The Duke of Rutland earlier tonight, he mentioned the competition will be top notch this year. I do not think young William would be able to live with the shame were you to finish at the back of the pack, _so to speak_." William quickly looked at his lap in embarrassment over her mention.

" _Actually_ , Mrs Gardiner, the yacht is under the ownership of Sir John, I am naught but a spectator and a member of his crew." Reginald corrected sheepishly, taking a sip of wine.

Josephine looked incredulous, " _Sir John Norton?_ But he is barely older than my dear cousin! Tell me, have you much experience with sailing, my boy?" Christine's eyes shifted from the two siblings, who were mortified, to an uncomfortable Colonel Crawford, to an amused Erik, and finally came to rest on a disgruntled John, who appeared to be struggling to retain civility.

"Truthfully, _not much at all_ , Mrs Gardiner." John stated patiently, "However, my uncle and late father were quite fond of it and I often accompanied them as a boy. It is my uncle's yacht that I will be racing, he gifted it to me now that his rheumatism prevents him from participating in the sport."

" _Oh dear_ , I am indeed _very_ sorry to hear that... For which club will you be racing? I assume you hold membership to a yacht club, _it is_ a necessity for even the amateur yachtsman after all."

John swallowed loudly, "Yes, _quite right you are_ , Mrs Gardiner. I belong to The Norfolk & Suffolk Yacht Club."

"Oh? I am positive I've never heard mention of it before. Is it very small or very new?"

"It is both, founded not fifteen years previous." he answered flatly.

So far John was keeping an admirable hold on his temper, other than a slight edge to his voice, he appeared unruffled. Mrs Gardiner, who seemed endlessly determined to perturb him, huffed, "Ah, _I see_ , I'm sure it is a congenial group all the same. It is my understanding that the hosting club usually carries away the competition, but then what else can one expect with The Prince of Wales as a patron? A good friend of mine, Colonel Markham, told me that the true reward is to be found in the spirit of the race and that this outweighs awards to be won, but I would tend to disagree. Imagine the humiliation to be had in losing! _Why_ , I personally could not bear the disgrace!" she stated loftily, " _Then again_ , all of us are different..."

"With all due respect, _madam,_ I am in possession of a more than capable crew, most of whom have spent the entirety of their lives on the sea. I hold no qualms in admitting that I do not share in your pessimistic ascription of my _supposed_ situation." His coldly uttered retort earned him a small smile from both siblings.

" _Yes, yes_ , by all means _do_ disagree! The proper confidence may lead you to a surprising performance, sir. _Of course_ , had I been aware of your lack of knowledge sooner perhaps I could have introduced you those well-regarded in the sport, such as Colonel Markham. Do you know him?" Sir John shook his head, Josephine only shrugged and continued, " _Well,_ he is an avid yachtsman and the former owner of the _Pantomime_ ; he has a new boat now. Though, I don't recall its name... I have heard it said that a proper name is nearly as integral to the success of a vessel as the sails, what do you call yours?"

" _Cetus._ She is called _Cetus_." he replied stiffly to the apparent delight of everybody save his addressee, whose face was wrinkled in distaste.

" _My_ , that is not a pleasant-sounding name at all! Have you considered changing it?"

"Not in the _least._ It was my uncle who christened her and I believe it would be most injurious towards him were I to do so."

"Well, I think it is _quite_ clever," Annabelle chimed in, "and it sounds unpleasant cousin because it is just that. Cetus was the dreadful sea monster sent by Poseidon to attack Aethiopia in retaliation for the Queen declaring her daughter Andromeda more beautiful than the Nereids. In order to save the city the King and Queen decided to sacrifice their daughter; so they chained her naked to a rock to be devoured by Cetus but she was rescued by Perseus, who slayed the monster."

Much to Christine's glee, Josephine was completely beside herself. " _Good Heavens_! Wherever did you learn such a vulgar tale, dear girl?"

"Monsieur Leroux was kind enough to gift me a volume of Greek mythology." she replied daintily, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

Mrs Gardiner's already pinched features battled between lividness and shock and Christine watched with intrigue to see which would win out. After a short while a scowl pulled at the corners of her thin, wrinkled lips: it appeared fury had been the victor. She looked towards Erik, her face set in angry resolve, clearly she meant to dress him down for what in her mind was a most improper and egregious wrong. But when she met his eyes she appeared to rethink, apparently she wasn't a _complete_ fool.

"Monsieur Leroux, I am baffled at what could you have meant in providing my cousin with these books? What purpose could _these_... _salacious_ stories serve to any well-bred, young, unmarried girl? I do not know if this is the _done_ thing in France but here in England it is very much unseemly, bordering on sinful. Had you stopped to consider what her poor, dead papa might have thought if he were to overhear his only daughter spouting blatant debauchery?"

Five sets of eyes were now trained on the bizarre impasse before them. Had William and Annabelle's shrew of a cousin at last gone too far? Heckling Sir John was one thing and had even proven entertaining, but castigating Erik was quite another matter entirely. The latter would not tolerate her flagrant discourtesy. His lip twitched and the rest of the party awaited what they believed to be the inevitable storm.

"I _apologize_ , madam, if my favor offended you." His voice was measured, calm but held a steely note of warning, "You may rest assured there was no immodesty in my intentions, I have given Miss Harland several volumes of various genres; she is an avid reader and an incredibly accomplished young lady, I shan't express remorse for furthering her education. As for her father's wishes, I am quite sure the late Lord Suffield would have been pleased given that he, too, was a great lover of literature." Although Christine knew his praise had been void of any affection outside of that of a fond elder brother, a pang of jealousy rippled through her to hear him extol the virtues of another female. Ashamed of her pettiness, she banished such idiocy from her mind and concentrated on watching the display.

There was a pause wherein Josephine looked like she had swallowed something immensely unpleasant, she opened her mouth and closed it again. " _Well_ , I'm afraid I rather have a _nasty_ headache and I find I must retire before the agonizing pounding in my head overwhelms me. I bid you all a good-night. Colonel Crawford, I trust you can preside over the remainder of pudding and coffee, I know it is _highly_ unusual to ask such a thing but my nerves are in _such_ a state."

"But of course, madam." Reginald assented as Mrs Gardiner departed in a flurry of complaints, ordering one of the footmen to fetch her maid before leaving the room.

The rest of their meal passed in blessed silence.

It was not until after the last course had been cleared away and drinks had been served in the parlor, coffee for the ladies and scotch for the men, that someone spoke.

"I'm surprised you did not throttle the old vulture, Erik," John smiled and took a long draw of scotch, " _Lord knows I wanted_ to." he muttered into his glass.

"Hmpf! _I wish he had..._ "

"You should not say such things, Annabelle. I find her just as intolerable as do you, but she is still our cousin and thusly deserves the respect entitled by shared blood." William scolded, his mood evidently having further deteriorated after an eventful dinner.

"Yes, a _third_ cousin, and one we've not seen since we were children. We owe her no more allegiance than we do to Lord Hood or Sir Earnest Butler, with both of whom we also share a familial connection. You should take a break from the moral high ground on occasion, dear brother, it might do you well to get some fresh air." she quipped coolly.

At that moment Erik intervened, if only to break the tension that still lingered in Josephine's absence. "I would be dishonest if I claimed the thought hadn't crossed my mind..."

 _Indeed_ the last time he wished to harm a woman had been back in the desolate wastes of Persia. At the admission a slurry of ghastly memories arose, swirling about relishing in their continued torment until delicate touch on his forearm tore him away from the nightmarish recollection: _Christine_. He countered her look of mild concern with quirk of his lips and she smiled, apparently appeased.

 _God_ , she was radiant... She still maintained a high color in her cheeks throughout their meal, reminding him of how she flushed similarly under his intimate touches. His thoughts then shifted to an entirely new, _equally scandalous_ , subject and he fought to keep his heartbeat even in such close proximity to her. It was torture having to maintain this aloof separation between them, one that he was determined to rectify as soon as they arrived home and in _every_ manner possible.

"Do you think your odds good tomorrow, John? I would _so_ like it if you could wipe the condescension from the old bat's face." Annabelle asked.

" _More or less_ ," the solicitor replied, "I would have thought them improved had we a tactician to handle the sails but alas, the man tendered his resignation today." He grinned into his glass at the last bit. What had been far from entertaining a few hours previous was now immensely amusing for whatever reason. Perhaps it was simply that he enjoyed vexing Erik and the way the latter's jaw tensed at the retrospection.

She shook her head in disbelief. "Why on earth would he do such a thing? And the day before the race too!"

He shrugged, "There was a _disagreement_ between him and _another_ member of the crew concerning the boat's refit. Nonetheless, the skipper did not appear overly distressed by his departure." Nobody felt it necessary to inquire as to the identity of the aforementioned crew member, somehow they had all managed to deduce as much on their own.

"The tactician was a drunken imbecile. A dog could have been trained to perform his job in a manner more satisfactory. His presence or lack thereof will have no impact of note outside our bottles of champagne remaining corked." Erik growled.

John chuckled, " _Come now_ , ladies, do not look so grim and you either, young William! _True_ , Erik seems dogged in his goal of driving off my entire crew before thirty minutes past ten tomorrow morning..." His joke won him a very nasty scowl and he smiled wider, " _But_ he is also my ace. It was he who refitted _Cetus_ and it will be _his_ impressive skills as a navigator that will lead us to assured greatness."

With a flourish, he raised his glass, "So let us toast to our having the _best_ bloody navigator on the Solent!"

Everybody followed suit except the subject of his praise, who was glaring daggers at him, " _Perhaps_ , you should refrain from salutations before we've even raced, one might consider it bad fortune." His reply drew a collective rolling of eyes.

" _Very well_. We shall instead toast to good winds, favorable tides, ideal weather, _and_ stripping the cross look from your _dear_ cousin's face Annabelle!" Laughter echoed throughout the room— _even_ William and Erik smiled a bit—as they all repeated his words and drank.

[x]

Following a cheerful closing to a night that had nearly been ruined beyond repair, Christine found it quite easy to fall asleep. Her dreams, however, were not as amenable. Maybe it was owing to a guilty conscience over what she planned to do the next morning or fear that her chaperon would discover her intentions, but for the duration of the night she was haunted by the very first time she met the _delightful_ Mrs Gardiner. It was _far_ from a restful prospect and even bordered on nightmarish.

* * *

 _The foursome stood waiting in front of the cottages as a distinctly feminine silhouette made its way towards them, the light too dim to make out anything further. Christine held herself in nervous expectation. Would her chaperon be as detestable as Annabelle claimed? The girl had been absolutely correct about her unpleasant great-aunt so it would stand to reason that this too was no exaggeration. Quietly she endeavored to remain objective and reserve judgment until she met the woman for herself._ _She did not have long to wait..._

 _At last the infamous relative came into view. Perhaps she was a bit severe looking with her tightly drawn light brown hair and puritanical clothing, but she would have been quite comely if her contrary expression didn't draw attention to her pinched features. Still, Christine restrained from solely letting appearance color her opinion._

 _A deadlock ensued as Mrs Gardiner reached the four, her sharp eyes sweeping over each of them like a wolf surveying which sheep looked tastiest. Christine was reminded of her youth when Madame would gather the poorly performing girls after practice to reprimand them: none wished to be the first scolded. Presently none seemed to wish to be the first addressed. She averted her gaze, hopeful that she would not be chosen as the sacrificial lamb._

 _Her prayers were answered when the predator singled out her first morsel: William. The poor boy was cultivating a palatable air of nervousness and upon realizing his inevitable doom, tried to face the music as best he could. "Hello, cousin Josephine, I am so glad you are come to Cowes to share in this delightful event. As expected, you look ... well. It is indeed a pleasure to see you again; it's been far too long." he greeted hollowly with a shy smile._

 _"William, my boy!" Josephine exclaimed, rushing forward to place a kiss on each of his cheeks, "You have grown so tall! How very like your papa you are!_ _ _I could scarcely believe it was you, for you have become a man. And your hair! You must cut it, dear cousin, you look like a Nazirite!" she laughed, "Even so you always were a handsome lad and with all the dignity befitting a peer of your rank._ "  
_

 _He nodded, seeming positively delighted that he had gotten off so easy. "Now where is my other lovely cousin?" Mrs Gardiner asked rhetorically, her eyes coming to rest on the petite blonde girl, who looked like she would rather be confronted by an actual shark than the woman in front of her._

 _"Dear cousin Annabelle! Is that you?!" She kissed Annabelle's cheeks in a repeat of her earlier gesture, "My, you've changed since last I saw you, how pretty you've become! Although not as tall as I expected and certainly a great deal shorter than my Louisa, but then again I remember your mamma being rather lacking in that regard; you certainly did not get that from your papa—God rest his soul. My girl," she tutted disapprovingly, "how brown you've become! It does not suit your complexion in the least. You must keep out of the sun; your cousin Louisa always has a parasol with her, even on cloudy days, and her skin is as pure as alabaster. You must take a leaf from her book lest you freckle and mar your chances of finding a good match. No Englishman man wants a little tanned, freckled thing for a wife, dear girl. If they did, they would simply go to the colonies to find a savage for the role!" Again she alone laughed at her quip, while everybody else gaped in disbelief._

 _"Please do not think my criticism arises from anything but concern for your well-being. But with your papa tragically gone, it is imperative you find a proper husband; with your agreeable looks, you should be mistress of a great house, not the wife of a third-rate colonial official. It is just as I told my Louisa... One of the most essential things is maintenance of a fine figure. You'll find men place a great deal of emphasis on such; even the plainest little mouse can score an enviable position if her form is pleasing. Not that you are plagued by such misfortune, cousin! However it is especially crucial that you heed my advice as you have no great height to balance an excess of weight and would not wish to appear squat."  
_

 _"Yes, cousin, one can see how the prospect of being mistaken for a gnome might be unflattering. I thank you sincerely for such intuitive advice and will take it to heart whilst endeavoring to secure a match that would do my family proud."_

 _Josephine gazed at her cousin wistfully, the latter's sarcasm going wholly unrealized, "Make no mention of it, my dear! As your relative I feel it is my duty to educate you in such important matters since you have no parents to fill the role."  
_

 _This combination of_ _ _Annabelle's saccharine mockery, to which the recipient was oblivious,_ and __Mrs Gardiner's ridiculous self-sanctification proved too much for Christine, who was forced to disguise her giggle as a small cough. Immediately she regretted not biting her tongue when the sound drew attention to her.  
_

 _"And who is this? Now that I think on it, your brother did inform me that you would be inviting an acquaintance... Come, dear cousin, aren't you going to introduce me to my second charge?" Josephine asked, turning her raptorial scrutiny on the brunette._

 _"Of course, forgive my oversight! This is ..." she paused, "Miss Christine de Chagny. And this, as you are already aware, is my cousin Mrs Josephine Gardiner, who is to be our chaperon for the week."_

 _"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss de Chagny. You are French, are you not?"  
_

 _Christine stared dumbly before remembering to speak, "I was born elsewhere but raised in France." She was careful to omit the part about growing up in a ballet dormitory. Somehow she doubted the woman would find such a thing proper.  
_

 _Mrs Gardiner nodded pragmatically, "Yes, I confess I knew right away you were foreign, my dear. I pride myself on an uncanny ability to recognize foreigners; your looks are much too exotic for those of an Englishwoman. I do not say such out of censure, Miss de Chagny, for you are certainly a beauty, if but a bit too dark. Such swart eyes and hair lend rather a pallid hue to your skin, yet any deficiency is overcome by the fineness of your features and the grace of your figure, though it is a tad willowy. Pray, how old are you, dear girl?"  
_

 _"Nineteen." she answered quietly, a blush staining her cheeks._

 _"Nineteen." Josephine repeated grimly, "I presume that is the reason for which your parents have sent you to England, to find a husband before you reach the age of undesirability? I do not think such a thing to be remotely impossible, my dear. I have confidence that you will catch the attention of a few suitable gentlemen if you understand how to highlight your feminine charm without revealing your desperation. There is no need to fret over such, your face does not betray your true age. No, no. Do not frown, Miss de Chagny! Faith: that is the key! You must never allow your misfortune thus far to color your spirit, you still have a few years ahead of you to secure a promising future; it is not yet hopeless, my dear!"  
_

* * *

These words, thick with unintentional condescension, echoed over and over within her mind, bouncing off the walls of her skull to the point of physical pain. Finally she could take no more of the wretched throbbing and opened her eyes. From the gentle light creeping through the curtains she judged it to be almost dawn. She was relieved to see the slow abatement of darkness, knowing the advent of morning meant she could carry out her scheme.

With quiet stealth she crept to the neighboring bed and attempted to rouse its occupant. It was _not_ an easy task. " _Oh_ , Christine the race doesn't start 'til half past ten..." her friend muttered; she opened her eye a sliver and seeing that the room was still mostly dark, pulled the coverlet over her head.

Normally she might have abandoned her quest, but today she was possessed of a fiery determination and would do no such thing. " _Come on_ , Annabelle, please get up! They will be leaving soon. Don't you want to wish luck to John, Reginald, William—"

"And _Erik_?" Annabelle finished for her, peeking out from her downy cocoon. Christine's cheeks flamed scarlet and she felt a mild stirring of resentment that the simple mention of his name could affect her so. He wasn't in the room, _he_ _wasn't even under the same roof!_ How did he manage to maintain such a hold over her even at a distance?

' _Magician is but one of the titles I hold,_ ' came the perfectly conjured reply in her head. She snorted. _Magician_ , indeed.

" _Oh, all_ right..." the blonde groused, throwing back the coverlet, "Have you a dress that's easy to get on?"

For the second time that morning she was bombarded by _his_ voice. ' _I instructed Dorothy to find you something that was easy to remove..._ ' She sucked in a heavy breath, wondering if it was sensible to meet him under such _conditions_. _Not at all_ , her mind warned but she hardly cared. Rationale consistently fell by the wayside when it came to him, when it came to his presence, to his kisses, to his touches _when he..._

" _Yes!_ " Her reply was too hasty, _too distracted_ , like a pupil caught napping by a teacher; she had always been terrible at inscrutability.

Annabelle cocked her head but was apparently too tired to comment as she usually did. "Good. We can lace each other and bother with dressing properly after breakfast. It's best not to summon the servants lest we wake the _dragon_." The two girls clamped their hands to their mouths to stifle a wave of giggles.

They finished dressing, choosing to eschew corsets, just as the sun hesitantly crawled over the horizon; a glance out the window confirming that the men were awake and preparing to depart. Sneaking outside proved much easier than waking Annabelle. In the crisp morning air, the two girls did not have long to wait for their quarry.

Not five minutes passed before William, John, and Reginald emerged from the other cottage, conspicuously absent was Erik, the _one_ person whom she desired to see. She attempted to hide her disappointment as the men took notice of their guests.

William was the first to speak. " _Sister?!_ " he hissed, "What are you doing out here? Where is cousin Josephine? Does she know you are outside?"

The other girl's eyes narrowed in annoyance, clearly prepared to deliver an acerbic retort before John interposed, "I _believe_ , dear chap, that our lovely companions have come to see us off with tidings of good fortune."

"That was _precisely_ our purpose!" Annabelle shot a glare at her brother, "Oh, we wish you all _such_ luck in the race! It gladdens me to see that there is at least one among you who is appreciative..."

A charming grin spread over John's face, "Not _solely_ appreciative, I daresay it has made our day. Hasn't it, chaps?" Both of them nodded, though William did so reluctantly. "As much as your thoughtfulness has brightened the morning, I'm afraid we must be on our way. I bid you both adieu, we shall meet again at the finish." The solicitor placed a kiss upon the back of each of their hands, his grip on Christine lingering and his gaze knowing, "Erik should be along any minute, he is gathering all of his maps and charts." He gave her a surreptitious wink before setting off.

As promised, Erik exited the cottage some seconds later laden with rolls of parchment and a leather folio. As soon as he came into view, Annabelle whirled away and engrossed herself in examining the flower beds to give the couple some privacy. Christine's breath caught at the sight of him: uncharacteristically under-dressed in dark trousers and linen shirtsleeves, black bandit's mask adorning his face; the casual apparel did nothing to detract from his striking appearance and if anything enhanced his aura of appeal. Her face flushed violently as he beheld her with mild surprise, "Christine? What are you doing awake at such an hour?"

She worried her lip silently as if in the throes of making a decision. Then, with a cursory glance at the windows to make sure all the curtains remained drawn, she lifted onto her toes and pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek. " _Good luck._ " she whispered as she pulled away.

His eyes flashed with brief astonishment but he said nothing. For some time they remained there in this queer manner, physically near yet each of them willing distance from the other out of worry; both knowing full-well what would happen if either decided to drop their defenses. The tension was broken by John's voice summoning Erik from the bottom of the hill.

"You have to go..." She felt foolish for stating something so obvious.

"It appears I must." he replied softly.

Christine reached out and gripped his hand, eying him with concern, "I _hope_ you know what you're doing..." This gesture of simple intimacy spoke volumes. Scarcely a touch or conversation had passed between them since coming to the Island and now that she crossed that barrier, she was reluctant to let go despite knowing she must.

Erik squeezed her hand in gentle reassurance, signature smirk adorning his lips. "Not in the _least_."

* * *

 ** _See_ , I told you the cousin was the _worst_! Didn't I? I based her character on a combination of Mrs Bennet, Mr Collins, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh from P &P and Mrs General from _Little Dorrit_. I didn't want to make her outright nasty, but instead have her _believe_ that her intentions are good, when in reality she is super offensive.  
**

 ***The name _Cetus_ was considered a bad omen for a boat because of its mythological associations and because pirates had used it in the past. Sir John's uncle, however, had a sense of humor which is why he chose it. **

**Next up we have the race... ;)  
**


	41. Down the West

**So first off, this chapter was absolute _hell_ to write. But, admittedly I made it difficult on myself. I'm a thorough person and I wanted everything to be as historically accurate as it could be. I did so much research on yacht racing from 1850-1900 and sailing respectively that my brain almost exploded (and all for you, dear reader).  
**

 **I was inspired by the 1851 race that led to the creation of the America's Cup, so named for the vessel _America_ that won. The race was round the Isle of Wight, a distance of roughly 55 mi. For whatever reason they did not have a race round the Island in 1873, so I based a good portion of my race off anecdotes from the one in 1866.  
**

 **A little bit of background before we start the race (this will clear things up): Back before yacht racing rules and modern boat 'classes' were established, ships started off moored at a buoy with their sails down instead of having a 'flying start' as they do today. A starter pistol was fired and the Blue Peter (blue flag signalling a vessel is about to be underway) was raised. Ships were given 5 minutes to ready themselves before a second shot was fired, the Blue Peter was lowered and the race began, during which a 'timer', working from the first shot, would countdown for the helmsman.  
**

 ***I have found contrasting information that only the headsails could be raised after the first gun, but this was in 1865 and specifically concerned large schooners (boats with 2 or more masts). I am going to keep it how it is because I think it works better.**

 **I wanted to be as correct as possible when describing the crew readying the boat during this 5 minutes, but sailing technology has obviously evolved, so some of it may be a little off. I used the correct nautical terminology and to avoid confusing anybody, I will give you a little glossary before we begin. :)  
**

 **Windward - the direction from which the wind is blowing**

 **Leeward - the downwind direction (opposite of windward)**

 **Halyard - the line that raises each sail (Sir John's boat has three: main, jib, and staysail)**

 **Sheet - the line coming off of each sail that allows it to be trimmed and a part of the running rigging (again, dealing with three)**

 **Outhaul - the line that stretches the bottom (foot) of the mailsail along the boom and allows it to be tightened**

 **Reefing - reducing the mainsail area (done to give more control over the boat in a heavy wind, the more 'reefs' the smaller the sail becomes)**

 **Gybe - A sailing maneuver where a vessel going downwind turns its stern through the wind so that the wind direction changes from one side to the other**

 **Lastly,** **I would like to thank the lovely LittleRedCrane for her support and helping to keep me sane as I churned out this large block of chapters.  
**

* * *

The walk from their lodgings to the docks was mostly quiet; each of the four men were lost in their separate, personal spheres of thought. For Reginald it was most certainly the pressure of agreeing to act tactician when he had no experience in the sport and inwardly he prayed that he could do a decent job. After all regardless of the type of sailing ship, the concept was the same, the terms were the same, the _goal_ was the same... was it not?

Young William probably had the most ease of mind out of the quartet for he had the least responsibility. The anticipation, however, weighed heavily on him and never would he admit it— _propriety prevented such_ —but he _desperately_ wanted to wipe the look of condescension from his cousin's face just as much— _if not more_ —than his sister. Perhaps a win would mitigate his foolish choice in chaperon and offer a chance of redemption in Annabelle's eyes...

Erik was quite definitely the most composed, his usual effortless arrogance curbed the stress an ordinary man might feel in his stead. For it was he who had the duty of plotting their course round the Island, it was he who needed to account for the tricky double tides of the Solent, and it was _he_ who would either lead them to victory or embarrassment. Yet his navigational obligations were of little consequence; he had mapped out no fewer than five potential courses based on the tides, conditions thus far, and the ship's strengths but navigating had not been the only burden laid at his door: he had also been the one who had orchestrated the refit and had done so with the utmost confidence.

Days he had spent pouring over maritime anecdotes from sailors, fishermen, and seaman, reading about their impressive and unique Bermuda sloops; he had educated himself on every bit of material on sailing and determined that the Bermuda rig was superior to the widespread gaff-rig.

Lord knows it had _not_ proven easy to accomplish such a feat. Obtaining the cotton for the sails had been as expensive as it was difficult but he would settle for no less than the Sea-Island crop: the extra-long fibres making for the smoothest sails in the world, tanned to resist mildew. The timber for the mast—silver spruce for its light weight—and the new rigging lines of tarred hemp had been the most painless to acquire. However Erik supposed he couldn't complain given it was a miracle the refit had even been completed on time.

Now for the first time at this late hour he felt a keen inkling of uncharacteristic anxiety. What if his calculations had been off? What if theoretical knowledge would not serve in this instance?

Lastly, for the yacht's owner, Sir John Norton, what had initially begun as a simple adventure had become an urgent quest for prove himself. Even though Erik had decided upon the renovation, it was he who had allowed it. The shame would rest squarely on _his_ shoulders if they performed poorly. It was a _far_ from comforting prospect. He was _not_ oblivious, he knew the other competitors sneered at his strange-looking ship and lack of experience, he knew all eyes were on him and his crew. ' _Ugly duckling_ ' they called her; ' _monster of Lowestoft'_ they said. It was doubtful that any other vessel could claim a comparable amount of pressure to that which poor _Cetus_ was under.

Trusting blindly in his friend would either be brilliant or folly. There was nothing more to be said on the subject.

When the foursome reached the yacht the crew was already hard at work. Only the skipper greeted them with any sort of confidence, the rest of the men were under the same general spell of uncertainty as the solicitor and his companions. The day was not off to the most promising of starts but fate often had a strange method of intervention and she, _at least_ , seemed to be on _Cetus_ ' side that cloudy morning, choosing to cloak herself in the unusual garb of antagonism.

"Well, chaps, _would you look at that_? It appears the rumors _are_ true, the solicitor baronet with one foot in the theatre has indeed entered a ship in this year's regatta. I suppose he is trying to add 'yachtsman' to his extensive collection of careers..." jeered a vaguely familiar voice.

Erik looked up from the collection of charts and maps in front of him to see none other than Sir Edgar Henderson, good friend to Lord Hinton and he whom had served as the Viscount's second during that fiasco of a duel. He shook his head dismissively and returned to studying the tide charts; he had no time for such distractions. Clearly the man was addressing John, better that he stayed out of the matter entirely. It would not do well to snap the fool's neck mere hours before the big race, especially after the business with the inebriate yesterday.

" _Oh dear_ , there are rumors now? Did you hear that lads? Already we are the talk of the event and we haven't even raced yet..." John's words were met with various sneers and guffaws from the crew.

"Talk of the event? _Hardly._ Simply the recipient of much confusion, sympathy, and consternation from the fellow entrants; the men wonder what you're doing here and the ladies avert their eyes for fear of seeing what will doubtlessly be a brutal humiliation. _Why_ , all the papers can talk of is how your vessel makes a mockery of a fine and noble sport with its flagrant hideousness."

If Sir Edgar was hoping to provoke he was certainly doing an admirable job, the solicitor's hands balled into fists at his sides. This confrontation was apparently serving as the much-needed impetus to stoke the fire of competition within.

" _Hideous?_ Far from it! I will concede, she is an _exotic_ beauty, an acquired taste if you will. Perhaps you'd care to run your hand along her side? I daresay it would be the closest you've gotten to something this lovely without having to first pay for the privilege, Henderson." He jumped onto the gunwale and held fast to the rigging whilst giving a sardonic bow. Another round of laughter echoed at the bawdy insinuation. Erik rolled his eyes, though he'd never openly admit it his friend's boyish wit and charm sometimes proved amusing.

Sir Edgar and his acquaintances ignored the remark. "And, _perhaps_ you'd care to refer to me by my proper form of address, _Norton_. However, I suppose I mustn't expect much given there's no cure for ill-breeding." A chuckle arose from the men beside him. "I'm afraid I'll have to graciously refuse your offer for I am racing as well. You see, Lord Hinton was meant to sail alongside his father, Lord Paulding, however as he is ... _indisposed_ , I was asked to fill his role. You're familiar with the _Arrow_ , no? She's somewhat of a legend among yachtsmen, but being that a yachtsman you are _not_ , I _suppose_ I must grant you reprieve for your ignorance. The _Arrow_ is beauty's true form, a _proper_ gentleman's racing yacht."

Reginald, John, and Erik all stiffened at the allusion to the contemptible duel, the last felt his arm tingle where Lord Hinton's bullet had grazed the skin. " _Then_ you would be woefully misinformed, for I am _well_ aware of the _Arrow's_ accomplishments. It is my understanding she did quite well in the earlier part of the century, no doubt Napoleon read over her wins whilst he lay dying in prison. Indeed she is handsome in her antiquity, much the same way as the ruins of Rome or Greece are graceful relics of the past."

"You may hurl barbs the whole day long, Norton, but it will cease to matter within the next few hours. Even if you were not so pathetically ill-equipped as you are, I daresay you will have a worse go of it without a tactician." he snarled. John froze, unable to prevent the look of shock from flashing across his face. A wicked smile tugged at the corners of Sir Edgar's lips. How did the bastard know about the business with the tactician?

As if reading his mind, his rival replied, " _Actually_ , I should be thanking you. Our tactician suffered a misfortune the day before last and we were in desperate want of a replacement... Needless to say, Mr Simmons is proud to be serving aboard a yacht as fine as _Arrow_. Maybe you should rein in Leroux before he drives off the rest of your crew as the race is due to start in less than three hours. Interesting choice of navigator, _I must say_ , but upon further reflection it seems strangely appropriate: a _damned_ man navigating a ship of the damned. _Very_ poetic. Be sure to pay attention, though, one might not end up in the _best_ of places with Charon at the helm." He chortled at his own perceived comicality but the sound died in his throat when he saw none other than the aforementioned _damned_ navigator standing at full-height and glaring down at him with the regal magnificence of a lion surveying his domain.

"Your advice is _quite_ intuitive." Erik said, his voice _low_ , _deadly_ , like black satin. The masked man reached into his pocket, savoring in the ambrosial fear arising from his torment, and pulled out a single coin. His lips curled into a mocking leer as he flipped the piece; it landed smack in front of its target with a dull ring. " _However_ , it's always wise to have the appropriate fare on hand when in Charon's realm. I have not an obol, but _perhaps_ a shilling might suffice? One never knows until the hour of bargaining... I _do_ wish you luck, I hear the alternative can be quite _unpleasant_." The other man's eyes darted from Erik to the coin and back again; he looked close to fainting.

"Oh, and _do_ give Lord Hinton my regards, would you?" Erik's grin deepened maliciously, ending the last with a mad chuckle. Without a further word, Sir Edgar turned and ran with his friends in tow, likely convinced that the masked man _was_ every inch the devil he had just claimed to be.

" _Good God_ , Erik, I think you may have made him wet himself!" John said incredulously, dissolving into a round of laughter before sobering and turning to address the crew, who were still gathered about.

"I want you to bring me that first purse, boys!" He pulled a fold of notes from his jacket, "A thousand and five hundred pounds to split amongst yourselves if we win."

"In place of our wages?" one of the crew asked.

John grinned, a mischievous glint in his sea-grey eyes. " _No_ , my good man, in _addition_ to your wages."

"That's a hundred quid each!" a crewman whispered furiously.

"But what of the trimmer, sir?" Collins interjected, voicing that which had remained unsaid and yet had gnawed at each of their minds. Any offers of monetary reward fell momentarily by the wayside and the contagious uncertainty once again overcome the newly-sprouted assurance.

"Colonel Crawford will take up the role. He comes from a long line of naval men and _despite_ betraying his lineage for the Royal Engineer Corps, it is my understanding that he has an extensive knowledge of sailing." He kept his tone kept light in the hopes that the men would find no strong objection; other than the skipper none were aware of this change in plans.

There ensued an awkward pause wherein a dumbfounded Reginald and an equally bewildered crew stared at one another uncomfortably before the former spoke, " _Yes_ , though I haven't the qualifications of the previous man—"

"Ya mean a love of cheap whiskey?" someone interrupted, earning him a nervous chuckle from the Colonel and a warning glare from Captain Gibson.

" _Certainly not..._ " He winked, "But _do_ remember, this will be a new experience for every man aboard, and no matter what her rigging, she still has sails, blocks and tackles, lines, spars, and a rudder. Keep her close-hauled when possible, with her ballast she'll have an advantage when heeling. The new rigging will allow her to reach closer and gybe quicker than the other vessels. Stay tight round the corners and above all else trust in your skipper." The men nodded somberly.

Morale then seemed to fall in tandem with the light rain. Capitalizing on this, John retook his spot on the gunwale looking every bit a ridiculous parody from the pages of an adventure novel. "I am well aware the odds are _not_ the most favorable." There were murmurs of disgruntled agreement, "She is not a big ship nor is she a remarkable one; she has not the prestige or sail power of the schooners or larger cutters... But what she _does_ have is a _damn_ _fine_ crew."

A chorus of: ' _Aye!_ ' and ' _Damn fine!_ ' arose eliciting another smile on the solicitor's behalf. "And I will be _damned_ before I let a boat the likes of the _Arrow_ beat us anywhere other than the salvage yard! So, I ask now lads: _are you with me?_ "

"AYE!" rallied the crew. Erik shook his head slightly; he had to give his friend credit, the man _was_ a gifted orator.

They made short journey to the start at a quarter past nine. Despite the ensuing hectic conglomeration of ships attempting to do the same and a few close glances, the air of hopeful determination remained. Not even the continuing rain could dampen the atmosphere and a short while later found them unscathed and tethered to a buoy at their station and by some jest— _cosmic or otherwise_ —the lot they had drawn was next to the _Arrow._

Surprisingly when the clock neared that deciding hour the mood of all on board was further buoyed, surging with the powerful west to north wind. The crew stood-by at their proper positions awaiting the first crack of the gun and glimpse of the Blue Peter; each man overcome by a heady rush of excitement, muscles coiled like horses at the line.

" _TIME!_ "

It was Collins who threw up the call, clutching the chronograph tightly as acting timer, his words punctuating the bang of the discharged pistol that marked five minutes 'til the start of the race. Immediately the men set to work; a beautifully oiled machine with all cogs in perfect sync, securing the tacks of two out of three sails to their respective shackles: the main to the boom and one headsail to the reefed bowsprit.

Attention now fell back to the mainsail. " _Got her!_ Ease up on the mainsheet and stretch the foot!" Reginald shouted, attaching the main halyard to the head of the sail, careful to keep it aloft to avoid the tangling they could not afford.

 _"One minute gone, sir!"_

Without hesitation a bearded man pulled the outhaul until the foot of the sail was taut across the boom, securing it to the cleat expertly.

 _"Two minutes gone!"  
_

Several other men, holding fast to the main halyard, began to steadily haul hand-over-hand; a task on which Erik found incredibly difficult to concentrate while watching John jump the halyard in his yachting apparel, looking every bit a performing monkey. He stifled a chuckle, concentrating instead on the roughness of the hemp biting into his palms.

 _"Half time!"_

Once the halyard was sweat, up ran the staysail, its mellifluous luffing almost musical their ears.

 _"Two minutes to go!"_

"Prepare to reef! I want three in her until we are out of this mess!" the captain shouted.

At once John and four of the crew set to work on the reef line that they had the foresight to include before they departed.

"She'll prove much easier to reef than that damn gaff!" a red-haired deck hand stated.

 _"A minute and a half to go!"_

With Erik and two others putting the right amount of slack in the main halyard, five crewmen wrestled the sail down past the first reef line, past the second reef line, finally reaching the third reef line they sought.

The heavily luffed mainsail billowed in time with the countdown.

 _"One minute to go!"_

It was a nerve-wracking spectacle to behold as eighteen sets of fingers deftly fought to tie the reef points to the boom; the tick of the seconds seemed to echo at deafening volume.

"NO PANIC!" the skipper ordered, " _STAY SHARP!_ "

 _"Forty seconds!"_

"Fi' mor' of these bloody things lef'!" someone growled through gritted teeth.

 _"Thirty seconds!"_

Would he get it secured? All hands regardless of their current task silently prayed, _then..._

"Go' the bastar'!" A collective cheer rang out as the navigator cleated the main halyard with a pleased nod.

 _"Twenty seconds!"_

Almost there...

 _"Ten seconds!"_

In an adrenaline fuelled haze John stared out at the nine other ships— _temporarily_ _become their mortal enemies_ —their crews scrambling about as frantically as his own, each with the same end goal. Only the _Lulworth_ shared their idea of three reefs in the mainsail, the rest sported only one. Meanwhile, the great yawl _Lufra_ still had not hoisted her canvas. It was anybody's guess as to what tactic she'd choose and whether her sail would even be up in time.

Any of the other nine could be the first to get away, including _Cetus_...

 _Five. Four. Three. Two._

Time both sped up and dragged on in the final stretch and all breathlessly awaited the emancipating crack of the second gun that promised sweet release.

 _One._ The cry rang out.

"Slip the mooring!"

Nine vessels worked gracefully from shore to shore borne forward by the combination of a magnificent nor'wester and weather tide; _poetry in motion_. Christine's breath hitched as gooseflesh rippled across her skin. It was ... well, _exhilarating_! No other words could accurately embody whatever the sight of the race awakened within her.

From their position aboard the spectator yacht of a one, Mr Geoffrey Weld, a vantage point secured by Mrs Gardiner— _something of which they had been reminded at least eight times so far_ —they were afforded a grand view of the western half of the Solent and all of the racing yachts. There was scant a noise from the crowd as all ten continued on their courses; even Josephine's normally wagging tongue was stilled with awe.

None but those select few keeping official record knew how much time had elapsed, for the enthralling spell of the race held the spectators in an indefinite stupor even after the vessels began their long leg to windward in near perfect synchronization, looking practically rehearsed. Slowly the trance abated with the subsequent short leg when a few ships started to pull ahead.

"On which of those ships is cousin William?" Josephine squinted her eyes almost as if trying to locate the boy on one of the ten ship decks. Christine shook her head. Despite bearing a close resemblance to a raptor, she doubted her chaperon's eyesight actually rivalled that of one.

"It's that one _there_ , in fourth place!" Annabelle cried jubilantly, her mood considerably joyful in spite of her company.

" _That one?!_ The ghastly tall one with those _abysmal_ crimson sails?!" a thoroughly aghast Mrs Gardiner cried.

Both girls could not help but smile at their chaperon's distress but the blonde found the most delight in it and, wasting no opportunity to taunt her relative, loudly exclaimed, " _Yes_ , that very one! Truly you are mistaken, cousin, I _think_ she looks _glorious!_ And her sails make her that much easier to recognize amongst the rabble."

Before any response could be made the trio was joined by another of Mr Weld's guests, Lord Yardley, a comely older man with grey hair and a matching moustache. "I am afraid I must offer my agreement, Miss Harland. I, same as everybody else, had my doubts when first I laid eyes on her but now that I am able to see her under sail, I must admit she makes for as a handsome display as any of her competitors."

"Its looks are _undeniably_ strange and while I suppose it is performing _decently_ , those sails are positively morbid! Why would one _ever_ have need for such a dreadful hue when light colors are _clearly_ the done thing? Every other vessel has canvas of cream or white yet there _he_ goes sporting ones of blood-red, like some ... _some privateer!_ _Now_ do not labor under the misapprehension that I think Sir John Norton to be an intolerable man by any means—in fact I find no grievous fault with his character other than his misbegotten sense of humor—but he makes them look like such parvenus in the sport! Oh my _poor_ , _dear_ cousin, Lord Suffield, must feel _terribly_ ashamed to be on such a craft."

"On the contrary, madam, I expect your cousin to be nothing less than proud to be aboard the _Cetus_. I myself would be glad to join her crew, she looks to be rather fiery and a solid performer as well. Mark me, she will be the one to watch. Did my ears hear correctly? Said you 'privateers', Mrs Gardiner? It is indeed a _romantic_ notion, but if you will forgive my correction, sailcloth of that color is quite common. It is a process by which the cotton is dyed to waterproof and protect against rot and is usually seen on Thames barges and fishing vessels. Though admittedly I have never seen it on a racing yacht, I daresay it shows a good bit of foresight on behalf of Sir John Norton by way of sail preservation."

Christine and Annabelle turned to look at Lord Yardley, the latter appeared to want to kiss the man for soundly giving her cousin a thorough— _and much deserved_ —tongue lashing. Effectively silenced for the present, Josephine's expression soured and she made no remark as the first four vessels disappeared from sight past Hurst Castle, Sir John's ship amongst the leaders.

"I believe the first four round were the _Lulworth, Arrow, Blue Bell,_ and _Cetus_ , in that order." Lord Yardley remarked, gazing through his field glasses, " _Titania_ is fifth, followed by: _Pantomime, Egeria, Christabel, Kriemhilda,_ and _Lufra_ remaining in the last position. All in all, a _very_ good show thus far." he said, tucking his binoculars into his jacket with a smile as the _Lufra's_ mizzen mast vanished in the distance.

The imposing outlines of Hurst Castle to starboard and the Victoria Fort to port stood sentinel as _Cetus_ first entered the Needles Passage still holding tightly to her fourth place position. Out of the narrow channel of the Solent and her deceptive tides, the most tricky part of the race behind them, they were free to concentrate on the fine sailing promised ahead and the strategy that might lead them to acclaim.

" _You know_ , were we not behind those bastards, I would stop and admire the view!" John shouted over his shoulder, indicating the variety of colors adorning the cliffs of Alum Bay.

Indeed they were a breathtaking scene to behold, chalky cliffs with many hued masses of earth all stacked in picturesque confusion. Several of the crewmen paused to glance upwards in the midst of their duties; the cliffs were not a sight of which one grew weary, their beauty remained just as awe-inspiring after a dozen times as it had been the first. They stood overlooking the sea with stark magnificence, boldly tapering and narrowing to a point in the sea beyond which there jutted three rocks from the surf, resembling the back of a great sea serpent: the Needles.

A unified exclamation of triumph rang out in the salty air upon rounding these famed rocks, a doubtless response to the former tactician's faithless comment. They had made it this far.

For added benefit the rain had tapered off and the wind blew consistently without much change of direction; everything looked to be in the right. Even Erik appeared satisfied with their progress when he called out for the time and log reading. So enamored were they with the geographical splendor of the gigantic chalk monoliths that none noticed the vessel off their starboard side until after she had overtaken them, her mizzen mast unmistakable... There was only one yawl in the race. _Lufra._

"Damn! There goes yet another..." Sir John said, acting as a mouthpiece for the crew.

 _Cetus_ was now fifth with three ships bearing hard astern; her odds were decreasing along with everyone's spirits as she came up to Freshwater Bay. Only the skipper and navigator remained unperturbed, both apparently privy to some shared secret. The solicitor regarded the masked man staring towards the horizon, indelible smirk etched on his face. Was this the same man who had insisted on a refit to better their chances, the same one whom had been so determined to win?

"Would you care to disclose why you are apparently pleased with our ... _as you so once eloquently put it,_ 'looking ridiculous'? There are four other ships in front of us, one of which— _need I remind you_ —is that _twat_ Henderson."

Erik did not turn, his smirk deepened and took on a roguish air. "You are now a sailor, Norton, but that hardly means you must speak like one..." he quipped, relishing in goading his friend, "The _Arrow_ and the others are leading us by no more than a mile in my estimation. Their advantage is as inconsequential as it is ephemeral and will be reversed drastically by heavy seas."

John puzzled for a moment at the strange reply; ambiguous responses were par for the course in a friendship with Erik, but he was currently not in the mood for such, not with four boats ahead of them and three more running close behind. "I suppose that too is by your estimation or can you simply gaze into the future using the crystal ball fitted at your station next to the compass?"

"The latter, however I find a crystal ball is needless in presence of those clouds." Erik gestured indolently at the dark skyline off the horizon.

"What?"

He gave an infuriating smile, "Look out your oilskins, Norton, a squall is imminent."

As it happened, the prediction turned out to be accurate. No sooner had they all donned their foul weather gear than they were met by a large swell outside of Rocken End. Big, chunky waves fell under their hull like uneven cobbles, washing over the deck impudently. The sea tried in vain to drench them head to foot with her stinging spray but upon meeting the blesséd barrier of their oilskins, settled for their faces instead, the salt clinging desperately to every inch of fabric and skin it could.

" _Christ_ , I think I'm going to be sick!" William murmured seconds before he bent over the gunwale. Luckily the rest of the men were too preoccupied to heckle the young peer for the woeful absence of his sea legs.

"You will scrub her clean if you get any of that sick on my yacht, Harland!" John jibed playfully. The young boy, reluctant to open his mouth lest he be ill again, didn't bother to answer but instead gave a weak nod.

While their run down the western side of the Island was anything but comfortable, their added stability kept them well on course and it was not an all around terrible time. _Cetus,_ it turned out, was quite at home powering through the churning waves like her monstrous namesake. At some point they had lost the three trailing vessels and were now rapidly coming up on one of the four leaders. They were nearly past the _Egeria_ when the skipper ordered a change of tack that would take them out to sea at the navigator's behest.

"For one previously so eager to win, you seem to be trying your damnedest to sabotage our chances of doing it. May I ask why you are taking us out to bloody sea just as we were poised to reclaim our earlier position, or is _that_ inconsequential as well?"

Erik eyed the escaping _Egeria_ indifferently as they shifted direction, leaving the Island and fellow yachts behind. "We will overtake her later." He gave a blasé shrug, "Presently we've more pressing matters to attend..."

"And those being?"

"Norton, your asinine inquiries are incredibly wearing _a_ _nd_ to think I entrust a simpleton such as you to handle my business... Your idiocy _truly_ astounds." The masked man shook his head, " _That_ ," he pointed to the shrinking land, "is the lee shore; we need as much sea room as possible lest we risk foundering off of St. Catherine's. Or did you think that dark line of clouds would bring us balmy weather and a gentle breeze?"

 _Drat that man and his infallible logic!_ He _did_ have a definite point. There was just one thing that did not add up...

"Yes, but would that not mean we are headed for the squall?" John asked with a small frown.

A devilish smile ghosted across Erik's lips, made all the more worrying by the half-mad glint in his eyes— _eyes_ which mimicked the roiling sea in color and intensity. " _Precisely._ "

* * *

 **Uh-oh, a cliffhanger? And _right_ as they are headed into a storm too!  
**

 **Stick around for the second part and while you're at it R &R? :)**


	42. Up the East

****While editing the next chapter I decided to shift some information to the end of this chapter, both to balance out the word count and because I think it a better point at which to end. There is nothing else new about this chapter save the ending so if you want to just skip re-reading and read that part, you won't miss anything. Sorry about that!**

 **A/N: For those who don't understand what Erik is trying to do and why on earth he would be willingly going into bad weather with the race on the line, he isn't crazy ... _well mostly_. What he is attempting is to run downwind (with the wind directly behind the sails) using the winds from the squall. It was— _and still is_ —a very risky move, especially before the much faster contemporary racing yachts. If executed correctly it can pay off greatly and if _not..._ I'm sure you can imagine.  
**

 **Once again here is a little glossary to help out with the nautical terms:**

 **Reefing - reducing the sail area (done to give more control over the boat in a heavy wind, the more 'reefs' the smaller the sail becomes), the bowsprit can be withdrawn to 'reef' as well  
**

 **No. 4 Jib - A smaller, tougher staysail designed for use in foul, windy weather**

 **Gybe - A sailing maneuver where a vessel going downwind turns its stern through the wind so that the wind direction changes from one side to the other; during a gybe the boom swings from one side of the ship to the other which can be potentially dangerous to anybody who is in the way**

 **Dismasted - when a sailboat's mast breaks but the boat is still otherwise seaworthy and floating (no critical hull damage)**

 **Now let's see what happens, shall we? ;)**

* * *

It was all Sir John could do to gape at his navigator obtusely. He had _long_ suspected the masked man was only thinly tethered to sanity but it now appeared the last strand of the aforementioned string had unravelled. Oftentimes it was said that genius and madness were two sides of the same coin, a hypothesis that was quickly becoming fact in Erik's case.

"You plan to sail _towards_ a storm? _Are you daft?_ "

Normally he would not dare resort to such blunt confrontation—especially when the person in question had a temper that could only be described as _formidable_ —but desperate times required desperate measures. The solicitor decided he would rather face his friend's wrath than that of Mother Nature, though it _was_ a toss-up.

Erik ignored the question at first, continuing to hold up a compass to the clouds in the distance and making notes under his breath. Finally he lowered the instrument, "Yes." he said flatly to no one in particular, "The incoming squall shall serve nicely to our advantage."

" _Yes_ , dear chap, I should say it shall serve _rather_ advantageously if the object is becoming shipwrecked."

"I am aware it is not traditional for a theatre manager, but have you ever considered auditioning for the stage? Your natural predisposition for melodrama would do _immense_ credit to the works of Marlowe and Corneille..."

He shot a wry glance at the other man, who scowled, "However your _talents_ , such as they may be, serve no purpose at present, as navigator this decision is my own to make."

"And if your _brilliant_ decision should fail?"

"As it will _not_ , I've not bothered to make the consideration. According to the cloud bearings our present course will place us on a path to intercept the storm. I will concede that it is _perilous_ but if we avoid venturing too far in, it is a risk that will result in an appreciable lead, as I doubt any of the other vessels will attempt such a venture."

"I truly wonder _why_ that is..." The solicitor rolled his eyes and turned to the skipper, "And what think you of this lunacy, Mr Gibson?"

Gibson calmly regarded the arguing pair, clutching the helm with veteran ease, "I have heard of trade wind merchants using Caribbean squalls to expedite their arrival. It is most definitely possible and potentially rewarding, yet—as Mr Leroux says— it is dangerous and every hand must be ready when it comes time to gybe into it; we also would run the risk of accidental gybes during. There's little room for error but I have confidence in my men. Hazards notwithstanding, it is my belief we should trust the navigator on this point."

Both men looked stunned, Erik surprisingly more so than John. When he had first made the outlandish suggestion, he had expected the rest of the crew including the captain to agree with the opposition. After all, most ship masters were not known for their love of risk-taking especially when such was unnecessary, yet the skipper had agreed under no pressure to do so. It mattered not if he won, he would get paid either way, so his agreement meant the idea was not _wholly_ delusional, right?

Once again Erik was hit with the niggling anxiety from earlier. Of his directional calculations he was positive, but storms were fickle things; fickle things with an endless capacity for destruction, fickle things that could eradicate them in the blink of an eye, _fickle things that refused to bend to the trivial will of man..._ What if the squall's path changed? What if they were caught behind it and robbed of their wind? What if they were dismasted or sunk? Steeling his nerves, he shook these thoughts from mind.

The time for doubt had passed. Now was the time, for sake of coining a pun from an idiom... _to throw caution to the wind._

"I want all hands at the ready! Double-reef the mainsail, put a single-reef in the foresail, a No. 4 jib on a double-reefed bowsprit and await the navigator's command. God willing, these winds will spit us out round St. Catherine's and we'll cut out the other four crafts at The Undercliff." Gibson, the skipper, ordered. He was met with unanimous assent and there was not a single look of skepticism to be had on deck.

" _Good God_ , you _are_ all mad..." John muttered to himself, shaking his head and surveying the excitement shining in the eyes of the crew.

"I _never_ once claimed to be otherwise." Erik replied with a smirk, obviously finding immense satisfaction in his friend's discomfort.

A small nervous chuckle escaped the solicitor, rationale dictated it a coping mechanism in the face of potential death. What else could one do in such a situation? What on earth had he gotten himself into? He could scarcely believe what was happening as every man began bustling about to ready _Cetus_ for the approaching storm winds. Were he not about to have an apoplexy he would have found the irony of Sir Edgar's earlier comment concerning Erik leading them to the Underworld rather amusing.

This really _was_ fast becoming a ship of the damned.

And, _why_ did it _always_ come down to Erik's plans promising either doom or salvation?

As if to answer the storm chose that very moment to make its presence known with a dreadful caterwaul. John swallowed heavily and sighed. Apparently the Lord _did_ have a sense of humor. Almost instantaneously the breeze built up to a mighty roar bringing with it slicing rain and hurling stinging sea spray into the faces of all on board, determined in spite of their oilskins to strike every sensitive spot in the nostrils and eyes. The rain did nothing to flush the salt-induced burn and instead endeavored to pelt any exposed skin without mercy. If the weather was any evidence, hell was just as likely to be made of water as fire.

Through the gusting wind there came the command for which they had all been waiting: _"Prepare to gybe!"_

Simple yet powerful, the response was equally prompt.

 _"Bow ready!"_

 _"Trimmers ready!"_

 _"Ready on the main!"_

The moment of judgment was upon them. Sir John anticipated the result, unable to breathe.

Which side of the coin would it be: _madness_ or _genius? D_ _eath_ or _victory_?

There was a sudden, dip into the trough of a wave and hard lurch to port. John gritted his teeth, his stomach seemed linked to the ship's every motion, dropping with the bow, bobbing with the hull, rocking with the deck. He let out a soft, miserable groan.

 _God_ , he could strangle Erik right now!

Perhaps it was the prickling at the nape of his neck or simple intuition but somehow he sensed there was something amiss. By the time he heard the warnings and saw the boom swinging towards him it was too late. _Well_ , he never thought this was how he would die. Of all the ways to go, this had to rank amongst the strangest.

Stupefied and resigned to his fate, he awaited the impending collision with a stiff upper lip. He did not have long to anticipate. It came swiftly, hitting him sharply in the center of the chest and knocking him flat on his back, weaker and more concentrated than he imagined. The impact radiated outward from his sternum in spirals of dull pain that ached in counter-point to the throbbing in his elbows. His lungs burned, each breath was a struggle from organs unwilling to cooperate. Each _breath_. If he was breathing, that meant ... _he was still alive!_

But, _how?_ He opened his eyes and found the _how_ glaring back at him ferociously, seething with anger.

"YOU _COMPLETE_ BLOODY IDIOT!" Erik yelled, "ARE YOU INSENSATE OR DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?! If it is the latter, I can _certainly_ aid you in your quest!"

"Steady on, Erik! You cannot save the man only to turn around and murder him." someone admonished; the voice sounded familiar.

"Like _hell_ I can't! On the contrary, I would find it rather easy and twice as satisfying..."

John blinked dumbly, still stunned and unable to catch his breath or speak and noticed that he and Erik were not alone; gathered around him stood Reginald, William, and a crewman. He could hear several people speaking though he could not quite make out what they were saying. It was a similar feeling to being stuck underwater.

"He's all right, the boom did not strike him!" He heard the Colonel shout to someone.

Finally he came back to his senses just as William asked after his health and gave a nod indicating he would survive.

"S-So ... what ..." He coughed, his voice came out in a reluctant croak, "what ... hit ... me?" Another cough and spasm of pain.

"Erik's elbow, I believe." Reginald mused, trying not to smile.

He paused to regain order over his respiratory system. "Did you ... need to ... hit me ... so hard?" he groused, sucking in deep, painful breaths.

"I would be more than obliged to hit you _harder_ , Norton." Erik growled, standing and brushing himself off.

William extended the solicitor a hand, which he gladly received, and helped him to his feet in front of a captive audience. To all of the sailors he must have looked like a dullard, but the tenderness in his chest coupled with joy to be still among the living made him impervious to judgment. Still grimacing in discomfort, he approached Erik to thank him; even if his friend hadn't exactly saved his life, the masked man had at the very least spared him a serious head injury or being knocked overboard. But before he had a chance to speak he was cut-off.

"Ensure that you find something to hold onto, _preferably out of the range of the boom._ " Erik teased, "The sailing will get rough once the wind catches and I don't fancy playing the hero to your damsel in distress a second time."

" _Fantastic then..._ " John mumbled, gripping the rigging and bracing himself for what was sure to be unpleasant.

At first there was nothing—a brief yawn of quiet in an otherwise cacophony of angry, bellowing wind, booming thunderclaps, and agitated seas—time froze and he could sense the event long before it came to pass, as if helplessly watching an inevitable explosion in slow motion. And _then ..._

It was immediate.

The sails caught the breeze and stiffened, a maid hesitant to a lover's touch, before the entire boat jerked and they were pulled along at great speed. _Cetus_ skipped and skimmed over the furious waves, acknowledging the inferiority of their presence with naught but the nodding of her bow.

Amidst the turmoil of the writhing sea and mighty bluster of the wind the ship seemed somehow _conscious,_ almost as if the passion of the storm roused her to life, _almost_ as if she had realized her purpose. For this was her realm and none but her could claim the title of queen. Bolts of lightning crackled and landed all around them, doubtlessly cast by Zeus himself in admiration of his brother's work: petals before the feet of an enchanting, dark beauty.

This time she would not fail in her destiny. _This_ day Perseus nor any other soul would triumph over the mighty _Cetus_.

She gybed to starboard, rolling back into the squall and running, trampling all beneath her hull in her crazed dash. Water hissed like a thousand snakes crushed beneath her transom, their limp bodies kicked up behind her in a piling wake; but the ship cared not in the slightest. And on her deck, overseeing the chaos, was her _master_.

Half-mad himself and no less frightening; angel, demon, and demigod fused into one: _Erik._

He had removed his oilskins and now stood in the lashing rain in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and mask. Soaked to the bone, clothes clinging to his frame, black locks whipping about his face, he stood glowing in the face of pandemonium and _laughing_ madly.

 _So very potent..._ The gusting wind, torrential rain, rolling waves, angry sky filled Erik with an uninhibited and inexplicable rush of vigor. Truthfully he had never given much thought to the sea save contempt. He had used it as a means of travel before though he loathed it, loathed the crowd of passengers packed hither and thither like filthy livestock headed to market, loathed the strange looks he received and the claustrophobic atmosphere that made him feel trapped. Then there had been the incident with Christine; a day that would remain forever etched in memory until death claimed him, and he had loathed it more still for nearly robbing him of his soul.

Perhaps the root of this hatred had been the ocean's sublime power. It had made him feel weak, _mortal,_ and he detested impotence. Not for the same, petty reasons as most men but because, as one who had cultivated power his entire life, it was the _one_ thing he could rely on to compensate for his lack of humanity. To him power was _existence._

It had been this disdain for the sea that had prompted his initial decline of the solicitor's request to sail and that had caused him to dread agreeing ever since. But now as he witnessed the storm raging around him he felt something else entirely—the smell of the salty air, of rain and electricity; the crashing symphony of roaring gale, shouting men, and churning swell; the sight of the angry sea, full sails and bolts of light; the feel of the rain, of the cold water breaking over the deck and pooling around his bare feet and the hard shift of the yacht as she heeled and gybed back to port—enlivened him: _pure exhilaration._

 _Cetus_ eagerly fed off the squall's lifeblood for near an hour before it began to dissipate, continuing to ride its breezy throes of death back towards the Island, her spinnaker, balloon jib, and mainsail bearing her forward on great red wings. By Erik's calculation they had exceeded their prior expectations to be outside of The Undercliff and were instead coming unto Sandown Bay and nearing the Culver Cliffs.

All was well until it _wasn't_.

Slowly it crept upon them, gathering gradually until it had engulfed them completely... A dense fog.

And what was undeniably a combination of the storm's after-effects and the usual mist adorning the coast. They were totally engulfed before anyone was the wiser. It was _not_ a good situation, the only source of comfort was that they had not lost the breeze completely and might soon break free.

"Are you quite positive we should continue?" John asked worriedly, standing next to the navigator's station.

"What happened to your incessant reminders of this being a race, Norton? Surely a _touch_ of fog is not _all_ that is required to dispel them..." Erik taunted, mostly to hide his own developing insecurity.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, his friend had every cause for concern. Fog—particularly to inshore sailors—was often much deadlier than the fiercest storm. Far too many a ship, regardless of size, had foundered upon a reef or sandbar or collided with another doomed vessel in such conditions. It was all _too_ easy to lose bearings in such weather and make a fatal mistake, even for the most seasoned crew. That thought brought an important consideration to the fore: as had been the case with the storm, it was unlikely any of their competitors would attempt to weather the fog. It would simply not be worth the risk, especially if they had been hugging the coast.

Such a thing could work enormously to their advantage _but_ he would need to tread carefully.

"Yes, _well_ , running aground might dash more than our dreams of winning that first purse, my friend."

"I would have thought you'd have learnt by now to trust my abilities." Erik retorted moodily, "It was not I who coined the title of _'best bloody navigator on the Solent',_ was it, Norton? The fog affects precious little and as long as we keep sea room on our current heading, I can make use of the tide streams to guide us." He did not completely believe the words as he spoke them but he could not allow himself to become unnerved. He _needed_ to remain rational. He _needed_ to remain in control, if not for himself but for the lives of all on board. Panic _always_ begot foolish decisions. "I had the foresight to plot several different courses in case of a similar event."

" _Oh?_ Did your crystal ball show you a vision of fog as well?" the other man teased, referring back to what had become somewhat of an in-joke over the course of the day.

Erik rolled his eyes and shrugged, "It _is_ England, foul weather off the coast is anything _but_ novelty. The position of navigator necessitates I make such considerations _and_ as I have already informed you, _I have no wish to appear ridiculous._ "

The words were strange coming from a man who had just gleefully led them through a storm wearing only a black bandit's mask and the clothes on his back; a man whom, _at present_ , more closely resembled a pirate captain from the Age of Sail than a cultured gentleman of Victorian society.

John flashed him a wicked grin, "All right then, lead on Charon."

It was a curious thing that a howling squall should be preferable to a simple patch of fog, that anarchy might be favored over peace.

Yet sailing through the blanketing mist aroused a queer longing for the previous liveliness of the storm; for the gale stoked the savage spirit buried within every man whereas the fog stole from them everything, a great, constricting succubus bleeding them dry. Where the squall had been life this fog was most certainly her opposite: _the clammy tendrils of death_.

 _Sight, smell, hearing, touch;_ all were impacted. Not even time, it seemed, could penetrate the cloudy purgatory that had ensnared them. It suffocated the senses until it touched the mind. It was _breath-quenching_ , _impenetrable_ heaviness that surrounded them at every turn, enshrouding them and draining their essence.

Not even their unflappable navigator was immune. The very same man who had, an hour prior, uttered a berserk, mocking laugh in the face of the sea's wrath, who had sneered at the bolts of Zeus striking the water around them, who had ripped off the only things shielding him from the elements and let the seawater kiss his unshod feet...

And _that_ was possibly the most alarming thing of all.

During this time the compass never left his hand nor did some form of map or chart. Erik paced the deck like a caged tiger and as expected with a likewise dangerous beast, none dared approach him. If any man had doubts, they went unsaid. None wished to provoke a man of whom they were already wary.

Somehow the breeze was the only thing that managed to penetrate the fog, coming in gentle puffs that carried them ever onward. Though just _where_ 'onward' _was_ , it was difficult to say. Repeatedly he stared at his instruments and barked at whichever unfortunate crewman happened to be standing abaft of the helm to read the taffrail log. He swore both under his breath and aloud, some curses in English, others in French, and yet others still in unrecognizable exotic tongues. On occasion he would have a clipped conversation with Captain Gibson or Reginald. His temper had clearly shortened but never once did he openly show unease or lose his head.

Though none voiced it John knew every man aboard, even the most experienced, drew consolation from the navigator. Odd to think how fear and respect coincided just as often as did madness and genius. But this smothering silence turned men into philosophers; the only thing keeping them from madness lay in their thoughts and memories and soon that protection would go the same way as their senses.

Then just as suddenly as the mighty squall or slithering fog had come upon them, a new sound pierced the air; foreign yet familiar.

 _Singing_.

 _Someone was singing_. At first everybody looked around frantically for what they suspected to surely be the work of mermaids or sirens but then it slowly dawned on each of them that the singing was coming from on board.

Every set of eyes furiously scanned the deck until they came to rest on the unexpected culprit.

Collins.

There he stood, a boy of no more than fifteen, peering out into the opaque bleakness his voice raised in song. John had never before heard the melody or lyrics; clearly it was an old sailor's ditty, which came as no surprise given that a majority of the hands had been navy men or sailors before his uncle hired them to crew his yacht.

 _Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,  
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;  
For we have received orders  
For to sail to old England,  
But we hope in a short time to see you again._ _  
_

One by one the rest of the crew, including the captain— _and to the shock of Erik and Sir John_ —William and Reginald, joined in. The solicitor's gaze met that of the navigator, the former expecting the latter to put a stop to the singing. After all, John was _well_ acquainted with his friend's impossible standards concerning all things music but Erik apparently was not so predictable.

 _We'll rant and we'll roar, like true British sailors,_  
 _We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas;_  
 _Until we strike soundings_  
 _In the Channel of old England,_  
 _From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues._

Erik listened to the song continue with mild interest and was forced to admit to himself that it was not altogether terrible. The boy, Collins, had a fair tenor—though his breathing left much to be desired and he had a tendency to go flat—and the rest of the crew seemed to grasp the basics of harmonizing, none were off-key at the _very_ least. Far from great, but it was _certainly_ bearable and aided concentration; even young William and the Colonel were not awful.

He supposed this information shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. The song was a shanty, a work song designed to keep morale high and distract the mind from the monotonous chores and tasks of ship life. During his travels he had heard tell of sea captains specifically recruiting boys who could hold a tune as these shanties were such an integral part of sailing. He remembered hearing some in his time, though he had been stowed away in the shadows then and not a part of a boat crew.

 _Perhaps those bungling fools who ran the Populaire into the ground should have thought to recruit chorus members along the docks_ , he thought with a sneer. It definitely would have been a marked improvement over the screeching cats, warbling birds, and bellowing toads that comprised the chorus during their short tenure. But, _then again_ , so was a zoo.

One song became another and another after that. Erik eventually found himself sort of _enjoying_ it—for lack of a better term—the musician within him fascinated. They were all different constructions, likely used for different purposes aboard a full-rigged ship. One had even been a rather forlorn ballad about a lad called William Taylor— _William Harland_ looked rather discomfited during that particular song.

After a while it became quite tolerable, _almost soothing;_ a welcome contrast to the oppressive, numb silence of the fog. That aside, such noise would logically prove useful in avoiding collisions with any other vessels lost in the gloom, since only steamers were required to be fitted with navigation lights.

There was also another, _inexplicable_ peculiarity to come of it. It was as if the mist seemed to ... _thin_ just a smidgen with each verse, carried away a little more with every line. But such a thing was surely impossible. _Chasing off a fog with song?_ The very thought of it was the _height_ of absurdity! _And yet_ , he could undeniably see farther and farther as one song ended and another began.

So, then, _maybe..._

 _Maybe insanity has at last taken hold,_ a voice jeered within his head at the same time a tangible one broke his reverie. Inwardly he recognized it as that of the skipper.

"This fog is starting to let up at last and with any luck the breeze will increase too."

 _So_ he had not imagined it, unless all on board had succumbed to madness. Unlikely _but_ possible. _Mere coincidence_ , his thoughts corrected.

"Have you any better idea of our heading?" The query was spoken with soft hesitance, as if the man was afraid to offend.

No sooner had the words left the captain's mouth than the faintest hint of a light in the distance caught his eye. _Could it be?_ He _wondered..._

Calmly, Erik held his compass up to the diminutive glow. East. It could only be the Nab Lightship. But how far away was it? In this fog there was no way to know how much sea room stood between them and the deadly shoals off of Bembridge. He needed to find another heading before _Cetus_ became Icarus, except rather than the rays of the sun, her doom would be a jagged, gnashing maw of underwater rocks. He _had_ to be positive before making an announcement and the skipper would expect a response soon.

Before he answered Erik swept the haze one last time and that's when he saw _it._ Another faraway glimmer.

Dare he hope? Again he raised the compass. Northwest _._ The corners of his lips tilted upwards slightly in a semblance of a smile, the devilish glint in his eye rekindled, "We are centered between the Nab Lightship and Bembridge, on approach to the Warner Lightship from a direct course southeast."

Maybe it was owing to the confidence of his tone or maybe the captain was afraid to openly express doubt, but the man simply nodded. "Very good then." Gibson lingered, seemingly warring with himself over whether he should continue. Finally he cleared his throat, "If any man could take us through this damn mist, Mr Leroux, I believe it to be you. Carry on."

Erik did not move at first despite the skipper having already walked off. He was stricken with the strangest feeling, one which he had not experienced in a great many years, one which he had not felt since _Rome_. _Was ..._ _was_ it _pride_ in a compliment? How utterly foolish!

Normally such things were meaningless, little annoyances from the mouths of lesser men, _envious men_. Usually frivolities such as these inspired contempt and anger, not graciousness. As if he was not perfectly aware of his own extraordinary abilities! _As if_ any person with half a wit would _envy_ a monstrous abnormality such as he...

 _Yes_ , he had been given unimaginable gifts but they were not worth the price he paid his entire life, not worth the _curse_ he had been forced to endure since birth. It was another of God's cruel japes; _at least_ he had supposed as much when he was younger and believed in such nonsense. Irritated at his own apparent weakness, Erik trained his focus back on his sole task: _navigating_.

* * *

 **Looks like you guys are getting a 3-part race, lol. I guess that's not the _worst_ news ever. Hope you liked this chapter all the same.**

 **A/N: So I thought it would be fun to add some sea shanties to the mix! Sea shanties were work songs commonly sung on merchant sailing vessels to accompany their daily duties. There are several 'types' of shanties for each task that was performed. There were some for hauling, heaving, and leisure.  
**

 **This one is the 1840s version of "Spanish Ladies", which is one of the most well-known ones (and not _technically_ a shanty in earnest). **


	43. Round the Mark

**A/N: I took down the previous chapter because I needed to shift some information from this one to balance out the word count. Everything is still the same with the exception of the ending, so you can just read that new addition if you don't wish to read the whole thing again. It's not necessary but things will make a bit more sense if you _do_ go back and read it. Sorry about that!**

 **So I kicked around a lot of different ideas for which yacht to model _Cetus_ after and I decided to go with the body of _Genesta_ (the 1885 America's Cup Challenger) and the rigging of _Shamrock V_ (the 1930 America's Cup Challenger). **

**Now we have _at last_ reached the final leg of the race... **

**Meaning I can finally close all 2 million Safari tabs with those 1866-1873 yacht periodicals, journals and resources!**

 **And of _course_ meaning we get to find out who wins! I'm taking bets still, if anybody wants in. ;)  
**

* * *

Haltingly the air continued to clear as a new breeze blew them ever closer to the lightship. Its nearing, steady beam brought with it comfort and chipped away at the malaise that had settled in alongside the fog. Visibility was still far from ideal but fifty meters was better than being unable to see the bow from the helm. He continued plotting their present course thus far, choosing to ignore the approaching footsteps until they halted and he glanced the figure of Sir John out of his periphery.

Yes, it was about time for another irritating little check-in, wasn't it?

"Where exactly are we?" he inquired. _So foreseeable..._

"Still floating aboard this _damn_ boat somewhere in the Atlantic ocean." Erik retorted sarcastically, not bothering to look up from his map.

John smiled at the reply he had received, it was so very predictable, so _very_ like Erik. "You know, I _hadn't_ noticed... Would you happen to be cognizant of precisely _where_ in the Atlantic we are, my friend?"

"Do you wish for an exact answer in latitude and longitude?"

" _No_ , but I _would_ appreciate one before we finish the race." he returned, fighting gibe with gibe.

"If it means I will be left in peace, Norton, I will gladly oblige. Since you are possessed of such a burning desire to know, and are for some reason incapable of reading a map, we are in the Solent and will soon pass the Warner Lightship en route to Ryde." Erik said haughtily, purposely giving directions even a dimwit could comprehend.

"Ah, not much longer 'til Cowes then!" the solicitor said, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. Today had proved an amusing diversion, _albeit trying_ , and he wanted nothing more than to unwind with good company and better scotch. Yet there would be time for that later. At present the race was still on and a thought which had been nagging at him since the conditions had begun improving came to the fore; his grin morphed into a frown.

"Say, Erik, where do you think the others are? Mr Gibson believes they would have more than likely anchored if they had been caught in the fog."

He received no response. Instead, the navigator was now staring off into the distance intently, conjuring images of a large predator stalking hidden prey; it was obvious he was no longer listening. " _Quiet._ " The command came as a soft hiss.

Why was Erik so odd sometimes? John ignored him and persisted, "Do you think they've _—_ "

"For the love God, Norton... _BE SILENT!_ " Erik growled, his eyes narrowing; he was still focused on whatever had caught his interest. "It _appears_ we are about to learn the answer to that question." he explained.

An abrupt gust blew seemingly from nowhere carrying on its currents the sound of voices, of buffeting sails, _of another vessel approaching_. Several of the crew noticed and quickly scrambled to their stations, awaiting orders. Each had the same look of unwavering thirst etched onto his face; a drought that could only be quenched by the honeyed waters of glory.

"How far by your estimate, Mr Leroux?" Captain Gibson asked, attempting to make use of a spyglass and deciding it futile.

Erik gave a small shrug, "Perhaps a quarter mile... However, as we are at present running before the wind, the others may have the advantage with the amount of canvas they carry as gaff-rigs typically have twenty-five percent more sail. If such is the case, they will overtake us."

"Ah, I figured as much..." Gibson nodded cordially, "Any suggestions?"

"Forgive me but should you not be consulting Colonel Crawford or one of your crew? I have no experience in this regard." Erik replied more bluntly than intended; the question had caught him off-guard. Why would he, who had openly despised boats until today, have been asked such a thing? He only knew what he had gleaned from books and even then such information was far from concrete.

Fortunately the captain did not appear slighted by the rude reaction. " _Perhaps not_ , but you _are_ the most knowledgeable on the strengths of this ship with her new rigging and I would like your opinion on the matter regardless."

"If the wind permits we should sail through Spithead and come about off of Stokes Bay Pier rather than hugging the Ryde Roads through Osbourne Bay; the tides will be in our favor and it will prove beneficial for tacking."

Captain Gibson pursed his lips in thought, "And how long in your opinion before we are caught?"

"I could not possibly answer that without knowledge of the identity of each of the vessels in question as they vary considerably by hull design, sail plan, rigging, and size."

He trained a curious eye on the masked man, " _Vessels_ , did you say?"

"Yes, there is more than one bearing down on our stern. Three total, I believe."

Rather than the disappointment, anger, or despair Erik expected, the skipper seemed almost _thrilled_ by the news that he would have to contend with three yachts instead of one. Despite his growing respect for the old mariner, he began to ponder if the man had spent too many a day in the sun during youth. Why else would he be pleased with having to beat not one, not two, but three other ships across the line?

" _Excellent!_ I should find it very boring indeed if we had no competition to speak of in the final stretch. Now, boys, let's give the crowds at Cowes one hell of a show!" The captain grinned and tipped his hat to raucous cheers from the crew. "Pull back the spinnaker and balloon jib. I want all three sails full up and a jib topsail at the ready. I think it's about time we showed those toff-nosed bastards what this lovely lady can do when she's chasing the wind."

Sir John leaned towards the navigator, shaking his head sympathetically, "Christ, he's just as unhinged as _you_." he muttered jokingly.

"I'll be sure to remind you just how _unhinged_ I am if we win." Erik quipped, returning to his station.

But would they, or more pressingly, _could_ they win?

They had made it to the final stretch, through swell, gale, and fog; and throughout all of the aforementioned trials luck had been on their side. Were the tables about to turn so cruelly on _Cetus_ at the last second? Was he about to be made a fool after all? These concerns and more weighed on Erik as they passed the Warner Lightship and sailed into the waters of Spithead, their lead ever diminishing.

"Can you tell us just who is coming a'calling, Mr Collins?" the captain shouted.

The boy obediently trained the spyglass in hand astern, "One's the _Lufra_ , sir, I see her mizzen. The secon' is a big schooner, _Blue Bell_ , I thin'. An' the thir' ..." He very nearly dropped the tool he held when he sighted his last target; his skin took on a greenish tinge and his mouth stretched into a thin, grim line like a man who had glimpsed death coming.

No further confirmation was needed, Collins' face said it all.

It was the one vessel they could have done without seeing and naturally the one that was closest to them: the _Arrow_.

Apparently she had eschewed their predictions and hadn't waited for the fog to lift. At the speed with which she was currently running up on them, the two would soon be neck and neck. By some small miracle the two others were still a half mile behind.

All they could do was look on bleakly as the _Arrow_ closed the distance between them off the port side.

 _Twenty meters._

 _Ten meters._

 _Five meters._

Every man on board watched as her bowsprit drew even with their stern and her bow pulled up abaft of the mainmast. Soon the two ships would be dead-even. The situation was far from ideal, especially given they must allow both the _Arrow_ and _Lufra_ some twenty minutes handicap time. And to make matters all the worse, the fog _Cetus_ had left behind was right ahead, a white scarf tied about the throat of the Solent, ready to settle a previously unresolved score.

Their prospects were growing less auspicious with each second; a sinking despondency felt keenly by each crewman. All of them could practically hear the jeers and taunts that would await them upon reaching the docks, could easily envisage Sir Edgar's face, rat-like features awash with malicious glee over their misfortune.

Had the morning not gone off as it did they might have contented themselves with a second or third place finish, as there was normally no shame to be had in either, _but now things were personal_.

They could not, _would not_ accept less than first; anything else would be scarcely better than utter defeat.

However the powers that be were not about to forsake _Cetus_ so quickly. Her second chance took the form of a mighty wind that arose just south of Portsmouth. Governed by an admixture of determination and instinct, Mr Gibson caught the breeze with a perfectly timed reaching tack to starboard. Working like bees in a hive, the men trimmed the sails taut, trapping the wind and enabling it to pull them on a board towards Gilkicker Point and Stokes Bay.

Meter by meter the intrepid _Arrow_ fell astern amidst a shower of whoops, and the skipper's voice, loud and clear, swelled alongside another great puff of wind.

 _From Liverpool to 'Frisco a-rovin' I went,_  
 _For to stay in that country was my good intent._  
 _But drinkin' strong whiskey like other damn fools,_  
 _Oh, I soon got shanghaied back to Liverpool, singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

For that brief interlude their fragile lead was of no consequence, nor did it matter that they were fast sailing towards another impenetrable expanse of mist. Revelry was the only sentiment aboard _Cetus'_ deck of yellow pine as the crew joined their captain in song.

 _A smart Yankee packet lies out in the Bay,_  
 _A-waitin' a fair wind to get under way._  
 _With all of her sailors so sick and so sore,_  
 _They'd drunk all their whiskey and can't get no more, singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
_ _Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

The _Arrow_ withdrew further still and was forced to content herself haranguing _Lufra_ and _Blue Bell,_ fighting the other two for every inch of _Cetus'_ wake; the trio snarling and nipping at her heels like hounds after a fox.

But this hunt _would not_ end in success.

For the clever fox knew she could outwit and outmaneuver her pursuers with lithe ease and this was simply a lively run to get the blood pumping.

 _Oh, here comes the mate in a hell of a stew._  
 _He's lookin' for work for us sailors to do._  
 _Oh, it's "'Fore tops'l halyards!'' he loudly does roar,_  
 _And it's lay aloft Paddy, ye son-o'-a-whore! Singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
_ _Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

Their song grew _louder_ , _bolder_ , taunting those who chased. Upon passing Ryde _Lufra, Arrow_ , and _Blue Bell_ at last broke off their assault and the four of them scattered like billiard balls, each forging their own path to Cowes Harbor.

 _Cetus_ paid them no heed as she heeled effortlessly towards the stronger winds off of Stokes Bay, her lee rail just skimming the water's surface. This was her court and all would soon fall to their knees before her.

 _One night of Cape Horn I shall never forget,_  
 _'Tis oft-times I sighs when I think of it yet._  
 _She was divin' bows under with her sailors all wet,_  
 _She was doin' twelve knots wid her mainskys'l set, singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
_ _Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

All the while the vengeful fog only grew thicker, keen to end the red-headed upstart's reign before it began, rendering visibility ever more difficult. However the mist no longer intimidated, its card had already been played.

 _And now we've arrived in the Bramleymoor Dock,_  
 _And all them flash Judies on the pierhead do flock._  
 _The barrel's run dry and our five quid advance,_  
 _And I guess it's high time for to git up and dance, singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

Despite the worsening weather one would have been hard-pressed to find a more ebullient crew amongst the yachts of Cowes as evidenced by the continued song, which had grown to a deafening volume on a melody of wind.

 _Here's a health to the Captain where're he may be,_  
 _A bucko on land and a bully at sea,_  
 _But as for the chief mate, the dirty ol' brute,_  
 _We hope when he dies straight to hell he'll skyhoot, singin'_  
 _Roll, roll, roll bullies, roll!  
Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow._

Just as they had done earlier the crew started into another lively shanty, proudly announcing their presence within the Wight.

Captain Gibson shook his head with a chuckle, "It will be a right struggle to navigate this mess, especially so close to shore and with all of the moored vessels. I hope you have some absurd plan to see us through, Mr Leroux." he said mirthfully. The gazes of John, William, and a few unoccupied crewmen darted between skipper and navigator anxious to learn of the scheme that would land them safely— _and preferably first_ —across the line.

Initially they were met only with a blank stare, the masked man clearly deep in contemplation; his expression inscrutable until wicked look flitted over his exposed features, pooling mischievously in the wild blue of his eyes.

" _Yes,_ as it happens I _do_ have an idea."

Without further elaboration he turned and strode towards the bow leaving behind a wake of confusion. The group exchanged baffled glances as they watched the retreating figure managing to keep his footing on a tilting deck with ease.

"I wonder what _that_ was about. Say, have you noticed that, while definitely brilliant, Erik is sometimes a _tad_ strange?" William whispered sincerely, his observation earning him a snicker.

"Only a _tad_ , William! I say he is strange at the _best_ of times and _completely_ insane all the rest." John snorted, "I suppose I _should_ see what dastardly thing he has in mind for the sake of us all."

"When you do, sir, I shall very much like to know considering I am at the helm!" Gibson called brightly after the solicitor, who was currently ducking and dodging sails, rigging, and crew to follow his friend.

How had Erik made the treacherous journey look so effortless? Whatever the navigator had in mind, it had better be worth nearly slipping, tripping, and hanging himself. When he finally did reach the tip of the bow he wasted no time, "Care to inform both myself and the captain just _what_ this momentous design of yours entails?"

"Something you would doubtlessly label _'mad_ ', Norton. I estimate the visibility to be approximately thirty meters, the bowsprit will provide a superior vantage point to the deck; since you are here, you can convey my directions to the captain." he replied dismissively, not bothering to look back as he mounted the long wooden beam projecting from the ship's prow.

 _Absolutely touched..._

John sighed, knowing any argument was fruitless. "Just take care, my friend, I refuse to be the one to inform Christine how you met your end under the hull of my boat."

Erik scoffed, "You needn't worry because I _refuse_ to die in a manner so preposterous."

Carefully walking the length of the slippery wooden spar brought back memories of an adolescence spent exploring the flies of the Opera Populaire. True, such diversions had proven amusing, _even useful_ , at the time but paled in comparison to the thrill he now experienced. The bow bobbed in the short chop of the waves, salty drizzle misting him while the breeze tried desperately to offset his balance and pitch him into the hungry sea twisting below. It was like strolling along the back of a dragon or some other creature.

At last he reached the end of the bowsprit and grabbed onto one of the forestays, deciding it prudent to inform John that he was secure.

" _NORTON!_ " he yelled, "I THOUGHT YOU'D CARE TO KNOW THAT YOU SHAN'T HAVE TO PULL MY MANGLED CORPSE FROM THE SOLENT!"

" _GREAT!_ " came the reply, " _I SHOULD'VE HATED TO LOSE OUR POSITION OVER YOUR SELFISHNESS!_ " He let out a small laugh.

From his place, Erik could only just make out the shores of Stokes Bay and the curve of the land at Browndown. Indeed was afforded a much improved view and found himself pondering over why he hadn't thought of this sooner.

Wind, swell, and spray called to some deeply-buried part of him, promising a freedom of spirit few would ever know. A man could only hope to feel such liberation a few times in his life: _when galloping on the back of a stallion, when besting an enemy, when hunting elusive quarry, when making love to a beautiful woman.._. Was this what drew idealistic boys from the coziness of their hearths to the sea's awaiting bosom?

"TELL THE SKIPPER TO MAKE THE TACK TO PORT!" he bellowed, knowing it was time and hoping his instructions would be promptly executed.

Erik continued to bask in the heady cocktail of exhilaration, savoring the rapid-fire orders exploding around him like shells.

 _"Ready about!"_

 _"Ready!"_

 _"Helm's a-lee!"_

With august grace, _Cetus_ turned smartly on her heel in a march towards the finish; her master issuing directions as she glided along. All was unimaginably perfect. Breeze, time, and new rigging were all in her favor. The fog remained as the lone detractor and minute by minute it was losing its stranglehold, each gust dismembering it a little more. But even the pitiful scraps of lingering fog bore no significance to the mighty yacht.

 _Not this close to the end._ _Not now that she had tasted blood._ There was naught that could stand in the way of the dark, seductive menace as she carved through the water, relentless in her quest. Yet somewhere in the Solent three other ships there were also, all clawing and scuffling to be the first to emerge.

Four ships on four different paths in the haze and none knowing who would be the ultimate victor.

Hundreds of eager spectators lined deck and shore awaiting a glimpse of the conquering hero, spyglass and binoculars alike trained on the flagship marking the finish since they learnt four yachts, graceful as seabirds, had dove into the mist at Ryde.

Any minute the champions would come into view. It was all the gentlemen could do to guess and the ladies to whisper over _which_ four they were as the fog had rendered such identification impossible. Bets were placed, gossip was spread, speculation ran rampant.

"There's a vessel coming along now!" The announcement came stark, _abrupt_ and all went silent. Even the waves seemed to be holding their breath.

Blood surged to Christine's head, filling her ears with a churning mimicry of the sea below. She drew a tight breath, the damnable corset preventing her lungs from expanding. Dizziness, nausea, uncertainty and hopefulness mingled within her concurrently. For a fleeting second she swore she might faint.

Which boat would be first? She refrained from saying _'win'_ because as Lord Yardley had told them, the first boat across was not necessarily the winner. That information would not be announced until all of the times had been recorded and the proper handicaps applied, _unless_ a boat was so far ahead of the fleet that time allowances ceased to matter.

"Can you see anything?" asked Annabelle, practically buzzing with giddiness, and— _Christine was sure_ —nerves; for both girls wished for the same outcome. She shook her head, squinting into the harbor; by some mode of divine intervention the fog was held at bay past the flagship, giving a minimally obscured view of the finish. They would have a clear view.

Nothing. Nothing. Still nothing. _And then_...

She _heard_ long before she _saw_. Not the flapping of sails or the shouts of men, but something wholly unexpected. Was that _singing_...?

 _Come all you young sailormen, listen to me,_  
 _I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea;_  
 _And it's..._

 _Windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys,_  
 _When the wind blows, we're all together, boys;_  
 _Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow,_  
 _Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes._

Disbelief flooded every inch of her being. Surely it _couldn't_ be. Still somehow it _was,_ an array of voices— _from bass to tenor and all in between_ —joined in chorus; a single conspicuous one sparkling like a precious jewel amongst the horde. She would recognize _that_ voice anywhere.

Murmurs ran through the crowd like wildfire. The question then became whether ship or siren would surface as a dusky shadow loomed just behind the foggy veil.

 _Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail,_  
 _Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail;_  
 _And it's..._

 _Windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys,_  
 _When the wind blows, we're all together, boys;_  
 _Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow,_  
 _Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes._

Slowly, coyly the tip of her nose parted the opaque curtains; her red sails resplendent, monarchical, _gleaming_ impudently against the white. The tall figure perched with untroubled finesse on the bowsprit unmistakable and strangely appropriate. His shirtsleeves billowing around him in tandem with the sails, his dark hair whipping freely in the wind, every bit a portrait of lithesome authority as the ship underfoot.

 _Wild_ , _coarse_ , _mysterious_ , _powerful_ , _indomitable_ , much like the sea itself.

He served a scandalous contrast to the neatly attired gentleman surrounding her, the mask he wore only enhancing his aura of dangerous allure. Both he, with his black bandit's mask, and his mount, with her sails of crimson, untamed savages flouting the prim rigidity of Victorian Society. A dark god astride the back of his stygian steed.

A heat arose from the pit of her stomach, collecting in her cheeks in a swift, lightheaded rush. She grabbed the ship's railing to steady herself before the potency overtook her completely, her mind awash with thoughts not remotely respectable. Briefly she mused if the salt of air and ocean would cling to his skin, to his hair, _to his lips_.

 _W_ _ould he taste of storm, of rain, of sea?_

His eyes caught hers and scorched her to the core, gasping she ripped her gaze away before she was totally consumed. She was unsure how she could bear to face him after this, how she could bear to maintain the necessary polite distance between the two of them for one night longer. As the yacht neared the finish she felt his presence grow closer, overwhelming her every sense, invading her every pore.

"Is that ... _Erik_?" came the incredulous reaction beside her, a merciful distraction from her disgraceful longings.

Christine smiled, "Why, _yes_ , I believe it is."

Annabelle continued to stare agape, trying to fathom the austere composer she knew in such a state of savage dishabille. It seemed too great a task and eventually she gave up, turning to Lord Yardley and questioning him over the time allowance.

 _Up jumps the whale, the largest of all,_  
 _"If you want any wind, well, I'll blow ye a squall!"_  
 _And it's..._

Time slowed with each meter of water covered. _Cetus_ was still quite alone and the three other vessels temporarily fell from collective mind when she made her final nimble arch. Her swan song swelled thunderously as she rounded the mark, imbued with the sweet notes of victory, and fading into air as she flew off towards the docks.

 _Windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys,_  
 _When the wind blows, we're all together, boys;_  
 _Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow,_  
 _Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes._

But _would_ she hold onto her achievement?

 _That_ became the foremost question as the dazzled masses awaited the next vessel.

"It's a pity we will not know the winner until every ship has crossed the line." William expressed plaintively once they had docked.

 _They had done it:_ disproved their critics, brought themselves glory, silenced the opposition. Safely moored in Cowes, their quest at an end. Every man aboard weary, sore, and implausibly satisfied. The excited, staccato bursts of applause from the harbor announced the arrival of five other yachts in the half hour since they reached port.

"I could not agree more, dear chap." John concurred, " _Unless..._ " He paused, a sly grin spreading across his handsome features. _Perhaps_ there _was_ a way to ascertain the winner ahead of the Squadron's announcement, after all.

"Unless what?"

Among the rabble of crewmen stowing the sails and talking animatedly there remained one who stood apart, armed with spyglass, watch, fountain pen and pad, and still fixated on the race. If _anybody_ could give them the answer they sought... He exhaled hesitantly before gathering his nerves to ask the ultimate question.

" _If_ you are in a mind to ask me for a repeat performance, allow me to decline outright." Erik drawled languidly, checking the watch and scribbling something down.

"No." John cleared his throat, "I, _uh—_ have another request to make of you."

"It was implied that my demurral also encompasses any other _favors_ you would solicit from me." his friend retorted, not pausing in his undertaking; _w_ _hatever it was._

"Have you, by chance, a list of each ship and their respective handicaps?"

Erik raised a brow, briefly shifting his gaze to John. "As you seem to already know I have, why bother inquiring? Although, I hope you _are_ aware it is useless without record of each vessel's race time."

"And do you have those recorded?"

"What do _you_ think, Norton?" he snipped, "Once again I am baffled as to why I entrust you with my business..."

"Oh, _damn it_ , Erik! _Just tell us!_ " William exclaimed, hurriedly clapping a hand over his mouth. All other conversation ceased as every pair of eyes trained on the source of the outburst. The boy's ears flamed red and he toed at the deck in embarrassment, mumbling an apology.

"Why don't you see for yourself, young William?" Erik passed the pad into sheepish hands. A captive audience gathered around the spectacle, eager for confirmation or denial, wishing to at last put their doubts to rest.

John's eyes furiously scanned the paper over his companion's shoulder, "And y-you're sure?" It was all he could manage in that breathless moment.

" _Quite._ "

One word was all that was needed. A thousand emotions coursed over his face before an ecstatic shout pierced the air.

It was proof enough for the anxious crew and numerous cheers, hoots, and hurrahs erupted from all around.

Suddenly Erik felt someone throw their arms around him and he automatically stiffened, too stunned to lash out with what certainly merited deadly force.

"You've done it! _Good God, you've done it, you crazy bastard!_ " John effused in astonishment, his cheeks wet.

Was the man crying? Lord, how _incredibly_ humiliating...

 _Thankfully_ the bizarre display lasted scant seconds and the solicitor came to his senses before intervention was necessary. Although, disgruntled and discomfited Erik found he did not mind as much as he should have. _Well_ , that is to say he was not filled with murderous rage at the very least. Which, _for him_ , was _something_.

"Pull yourself together, Norton, I _will not_ catch you if you swoon." he snapped derisively.

John only stared at him with an infuriating grin, seemingly wanting to make some profound confession. He would ignore the unwelcome hug, but could not offer much more. God, what had he done to deserve this hell? Really he _should_ just walk away. Sentiment had always made him incredibly uncomfortable, in fact, he would rather sit on a bed of needles at the moment.

"Erik, listen, I—"

But anything John was planning to say was _mercifully_ —at least in the intended's opinion—interrupted by the simultaneous boisterous, unapologetic popping of several bottles of champagne; their contents exploding in showers around the deck like liquid fireworks.

After a short but rather raucous celebration aboard _Cetus_ and a round of congratulations from the skipper and crew, the foursome made their way back to the cottages in considerably better spirits than when they had left. They had managed to slip away quietly before bedlam had a chance to descend. Indeed they were halfway to their destination when they were intercepted.

" _Messieurs if you please!_ " a man called, "You are Sir John Norton, owner of the winning yacht _Cetus_ , are you not?"

John shared a bewildered glance with his three companions before stepping forward. Had the dratted reporters found them after all? Or perhaps the Squadron was summoning him already? He had no more desire to ruin his current mood by giving an interview than he did to rub elbows with that insufferable lot of snobs.

"I am. What is it that I can do for you, good man?" he managed as pleasantly as he could.

"As you have undoubtedly heard, there is a special ball being given tonight aboard the HMS _Ariadne_ in honor of the Tsarevich and his wife. I'm aware that the notice is short, but I have been tasked with providing you with _these_ ," He carefully removed four crisp cards from his jacket with a haughty sniff, holding them out to John, "for you and the gentlemen and ladies within your acquaintance." His eyes lingered on Erik warily before he muttered a stiff, "Congratulations on your victory this afternoon, we shall look forward to your presence, sir." With that he gave a rigid bow and departed leaving the four men wearing looks of equal confusion.

"What was the purpose of all of that?" William asked, cocking his head to the side.

"It _appears_ they are invitations." the solicitor answered, turning one over. Written on paper so fine it felt like linen in hand, the gilt-edging framing its exquisiteness, was printed:

 _To meet:_

 _Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales and  
Their Imperial Highnesses the Grand Duke Cesarevitch and the Grand Duchess Cesarevitch_

He smiled, " _Well_ , it looks as though we will be attending a ball tonight, chaps."

* * *

 **Ooh, a ball! In the words of Lydia from P &P, "I do _so_ love a ball!" **

**A/N: I mentioned the twenty minute time allowance and I just wanted to clear that bit up. Back in the days before the yacht racing rules were officially established and very specific 'classes' of boats were created outside the generic (cutter, schooner, boats over a certain tonnage, etc.), there was a good deal of variety among the racing yachts; they were varying sizes with varying sail plans and of different hull/keel designs. Sort of like having a Formula 1 race with random fast cars mixed in.**

 **However to combat the obvious unfair advantage larger ships would have over smaller ones, yacht clubs adopted a handicap system. There were a lot of these over the years but during the time of the story they would have used the Thames Measurement, which just gave an adjusted tonnage based on length and beam. This went in to calculating a 'time allowance'. Essentially larger vessels 'allowed' smaller ones extra time to compensate for their larger sail area and speed. Just how _much_ time differed by yacht club and race. Some added a quarter of a minute for every ton difference, others factored previous performance into it as well.  
**

 **This particular race, because it was 'open' (meaning there was no size or type limitation) necessitated such a handicap. Unfortunately it made absolutely no sense and was primarily performance based because the _Arrow_ and _Lufra_ were not given any handicap and there couldn't be two yachts _more_ different; _Lufra_ was a yawl (two masts; one main and a small mizzen) of 108.1' and 131 tons (222 tons Thames) and _Arrow_ was a cutter (one mast) of some 70' and 52 tons (118 tons Thames). The other yachts in the race were between the two in size and weight and the times they 'allowed' were in no way correlated to their Thames measurement. So basically a crapshoot...**

 **Anyhow, the first song is "Liverpool Judies," which was a 'capstan' shanty (for pulling up the anchor).**

 **Yes, 'Judies' _are_ ladies! ;) But not any 'special' type, just a generic female name. Back in the day if the winds and tides were favorable on a homeward journey, it was said that the pretty, young local women were 'towing' the vessel back to them. **

**The second shanty is part of "Fish of the Sea," there are a few more verses but I decided to keep things short. I thought the lyrics were applicable. :)**

 **If you want to hear the songs, I recommend the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag versions. There is a _ton_ of variation among shanties with regards to lyrics, melody, tempo, etc. and I like the AC version of both songs because they are more upbeat.**

 **Okay, so the race is finally over! Next stop, the ball and _lots_ of E/C goodness. **

**R &R in the meantime?**


	44. A Ball Most Royal Pt I

**Sorry! I would have updated sooner but I came down with the flu and could not think, much less write.**

 **Special thanks to TheLittleRedCrane for her words of encouragement and helping me to sort out some of the details.**

 **This chapter will be a 2-parter (I got a little carried away apparently lol). There is more E/C goodness in this chapter than in the previous handful but it's a muted amount because they are still at Cowes. Instead I tried to focus on some of the tension between them. Obviously the _want_ is there but restraint is necessary. I felt it would be unrealistic if they were to throw propriety away with the first real interaction they have during the week, especially in such a public setting. Also, don't forget the wicked old witch/chaperon! **

**Don't worry, it's all building up towards some steaminess in the chapter after next. ;)**

* * *

"A _Royal_ ball..." Annabelle mused dreamily, a contented little sigh escaping her lips as she reread the invitation for what was possibly the tenth time.

 _Indeed_ it did sound like something straight from the fantastical trappings of a fairy tale. Never could Christine have imagined that _she_ , a poor orphan of no significant breeding— _a former ballet rat—_ would be attending such a grand affair. _True_ , she was no stranger to such pastimes. During her brief time as a vicomtesse she had been to her fair share of balls. At one point she and Raoul had gone to a different one each night to celebrate their return to Paris following the end of the Commune. Even before her marriage she had participated in the Populaire's annual gala; then in England there had been her friend's coming out and Lord Tweeddale's gathering but all previous experiences were eclipsed in the face of tonight's exclusive honor.

She knew Erik had met the Queen on a few occasions concerning the concert hall he had designed, as had Annabelle when she was presented at court, but even they were far-removed from the social circles kept by royalty, a place reserved for only those of the highest, most ancient upper-echelons of the peerage. Certainly _not_ one for former thespians, architects, and low-ranking daughters of barons, no matter _how_ wealthy or beautiful; and she doubted she'd get such a privilege again. All of this in mind, it was nigh impossible to wipe the soppy grin from her face.

 _Oh_ , how she was looking forward to tonight! A Royal ball and _with_ her Angel by her side? She could scarcely envisage a more romantic evening. _Well_ , that was not _exactly_ accurate... but she knew such sinful pleasures were temporarily out of reach. Settle for the ball she must.

A chorus of girlish giggles erupted from the room's three other occupants; for two of which the fairy tale would remain just that, something they could never hope to know because of their station in life. Yet neither Dorothy nor her sister seemed bothered by their limited prospects and tittered at the thought of all of the gowns, decorations, and handsome gentlemen alongside the pair of girls they were readying.

"I can hardly believe it myself, and to think that it's so soon!" Christine squeaked, wondering how on earth she would be ready in time.

She desperately wished to look her very best tonight but being amongst royalty had nothing to do with this aspiration. _No_ , she had someone no less regal and _far_ more important to impress. Her smile widened at the thought, blushing slightly at the way her pulse quickened. Would he always affect her so?

"It's all very last minute, isn't it?" Dorothy simpered, brushing out Christine's damp curls.

" _That_ is an understatement! The messenger arrived at the same time we did. It should have been mentioned earlier that invitations would be extended to the winners of today's race, that way we would have had _some_ idea." Annabelle groused mildly. A look of abject disgust contorted her delicate features, " _Dear Lord_ , I am beginning to sound like my shrew of a cousin! I will be ever so glad to be rid of her tomorrow. Hopefully she is so dazzled by the abundance of stodgy, old dukes and marquesses that she forgets her duty as chaperon." She gave a small scoff, "The look on her face when she turned the card over, like a shark discovering a newly wrecked ship and plenty of tasty sailors on which to dine!"

Christine laughed at the recollection and the apt description of her chaperon's reaction. Barely an hour previous they had returned to the cottage and had just began to ascend the stairs eager to enjoy the scant time before dinner without cousin Josephine's company. She and Annabelle had not yet reached the fifth step when a thunderous pounding on the door brought them to a halt. The frantic knocking continued until Mrs Gardiner, tired of waiting for a servant, took it upon herself to answer, not bothering to disguise her complaints over _'terrible rudeness'_ and _'lack of good sense'_ as she opened the door; there a young man stood, clutching something in hand. Under her breath, Annabelle whispered that she was surprised he didn't turn and run upon being confronted by a witch. Over the ensuing suppressed giggles, they only managed to discern a few hasty words before he handed Josephine something, bowed and departed. Her face was twisted into a cantankerous frown as she closed the door, still muttering about various inexcusable character faults, but when she looked at one of the papers her countenance reversed so quickly, Christine swore there had to be some sort of magical intervention.

"Miss de Chagny, cousin Annabelle, you must come here at once!" For once her words held a trace of what sounded awfully similar to joy.

Only when they stood in front of her did she reveal her purpose, regarding each of them with strange pride, "My _dear_ girls, it appears that we have received a coveted invitation to tonight's ball, held by none other than the Prince of Wales! Have your maids look out your most ornate gowns and jewels, but do not be too extravagant as to appear vulgar; you do not want to seem _nouveau riche_. Oh, how fortuitous this is to be blessed with such an honor! Do you not see, dear cousin? This opportunity is ideal for you to secure a prodigious match, and for you as well, Miss de Chagny. I am sure a great deal of eligible gentlemen will find you appealing despite your lack of title and fortune, for you are in possession of the foreign beauty and gentle nature that men find so engaging. Now make haste, girls, you have no time to dawdle!"

Now, the two of them bathed and swathed in silk wrappers, Annabelle and Christine each searched for the perfect evening dress.

A small frown creased the blonde girl's smooth, pale forehead. "Sometimes I wish to be a man simply for the ease of dressing. Never once need they be burdened with choosing the most becoming suit since their evening wear is basically codified uniform. The extent of their selection involves whether they'd rather wear a black or white waistcoat and white or buff gloves!"

"But then you would never know the thrill of picking a lovely frock!" Christine protested, "Speaking of, I think I found one to wear tonight." She pulled the aforementioned garment out of the wardrobe with a smile, earning her a trio of gasps.

"Oh, it's _absolutely_ beautiful, Christine! Wherever did you get such a gown?" Annabelle chimed, her velvety blue irises twinkling.

Her face flushed, but it was Dorothy who answered, "It was among the gowns Monsieur Leroux bought for her." she explained with a knowing wink, "Ooh, I'll fetch some flowers from the garden for your hair. They'll look very smart with it!" the maid tittered excitedly, disappearing in a flash of red locks.

" _Now_ if only we could lock away the termagant," Annabelle muttered, selecting a pretty white gown of pleated silk with embroidered flowers, a square neckline, and a bustle the color of shamrock, "the evening would be as close to perfect as George's absence allows. I miss him ever so much, but he is in New York with his father for the rest of the month."

"Perhaps it's better that he's not here. I'm sure your cousin would have made it difficult for you two to spend any time together. Especially given her mother's opinion of George." Christine said bitterly, unintentionally voicing her own frustration.

The other girl flashed her a sympathetic look, "Pardon me, Christine, I spoke without consideration. I know how awful it must be for you and Erik under the tyrant's rule. With any luck that will change tonight," A mischievous grin flitted across her lips, "If that gown looks as divine on your person as it does on the hanger, I daresay its finery will more than compensate for a lack of title and fortune. _Even_ one so miserable as yours. He will be unable to part from you!"

Both girls then laughed so vigorously their lungs ached, though their newly laced corsets certainly did not help matters.

It was still light when they departed, with no hint of the approaching evening other than the long shadows cast in their wake. Their carriage reached the Royal Yacht Squadron's jetty at a quarter past six, Josephine under the persuasion that 'fashionable lateness' was the done thing. Once there they waited amongst a crowd of elaborately dressed ladies and dapper gentlemen to board a boat in the fleet of launches that were serving as ferries to the _Ariadne_. The massive ship loomed ahead in the harbor, the numerous flags proudly bedecking her every surface lending an air of unquestionable nobility and authority. _Resolute_ , _intimidating_ , and yet somehow possessed of a graceful beauty. Much like someone else who currently stood aboard _Ariadne's_ deck, _much like her Angel._ Her heart galloped within her bosom at the thought of their reunion, now mere moments away.

Slowly they set off in their boat, Christine's pulse growing louder with every stroke of the oars, anxious to rejoin its mate.

"You should cease glowering like you are bound for the gallows... It isn't as bad as all that. It's a ball, _not_ a trial, my friend." Sir John quipped to the dour figure beside him. He was well-acquainted with his friend's disdain for social functions, having had to all but drag the man into public in their time together. _Not that such a feat would be possible_ , the voice inside his head acknowledged.

To say Erik was a recluse would be a generous oversimplification. _Yes_ , he had a smart London town home within Bellgravia and his concert hall, but with his abhorrence for socialization the solicitor wondered if he would not be better served simply living below ground; though he had never been brave enough to make this suggestion aloud. And _yes_ , Erik did occasionally _—albeit rarely_ _—_ hobnob, but he did so with such a palpable derision that conversing seemed a chore most dreadful. It had been his hope that his friend's attitude would be altered for the better by the few women in his acquaintance, but they only made him _more_ despondent, were it possible. _Of course_ this was before Christine's arrival; the pretty French widow appeared to have brought out the humanity in him. Never seen such a marked change in someone in such a short time. Although Erik still remained stiff and aloof in company, he was no longer unwilling and that counted for _everything_.

John could not pretend to completely understand Erik's determination to be a troglodyte; his face doubtlessly played a major role, that much was obvious. While he did not know exactly what lay under the mask _—_ Reginald was the only one who had glimpsed him without and acknowledged it to be unpleasant but no mark of the Devil _—_ from his experience precious few seemed to give a jot about it. They were far too enamored of his talents to pay much heed to what they labelled as 'artist eccentricities', at _least_ his foible was better than the many of Lord Byron. The British were very adept at ignoring what they had no wish to see.

Mask aside, the rest of his face was quite comely and that in combination with his orphic presence rendered the white scrap of leather easy to look past. True, there would always be those who preferred to dwell in ignorant superstition and label the man a demon or monster solely because of his misfortune, but such imbeciles were in the minority and hardly worth the air they wasted for breath.

Even if Erik had been cursed with a skull for a face, he would not fail to educe mysterious allure wherever he went. From his voice to his person, every fibre of him exuded raw, sensual power and eloquence. _Tall_ , _daunting_ , _entrancing, erudite_ and always impeccably clothed, he demanded attention from all in his presence. Women yearned to unravel the enigma and men viewed him with an admixture of fear and awe; the mask only added to the conundrum that was Erik. And with his realistic rubber one it was impossible to tell there was anything amiss, however it seemed to change little in his eyes. He knew not much of his friend's past but he had surmised it had been thoroughly unpleasant. Then, he supposed some scars would _never_ heal.

"You should hold your tongue, Norton, before I hang you with it."

" _Temper, temper_ , dear chap!" John tutted, "Such an endeavor would keep you from Christine, a shame considering she has just come aboard."

"You'll find the speed at which I can accomplish your demise to be..." Even as he made the threat his entire demeanor shifted when caught sight of her. " _...exceptional_." he finished slowly on an exhale, the word holding a multitude of meanings.

Erik felt an total fool as he stood there staring agape. _He_ , the mighty Phantom, gawking like some callow, besotted boy. The very idea was hilarious in its absurdity and completely unavoidable, for apparently not even spectres were immune to the winsomeness of goddesses and angels.

 _She walks in Beauty..._

Each step she took brought forth another line of the blasted poem into his mind. Yet even the eloquent sentiment of Byron did her no justice. Words of unyielding adoration, threads of sonnets that wove tapestries of love, verses which spoke of the charm to be found in a set of divine eyes or pretty lips, all seemed trite and empty. No exaltation, _written or spoken_ , could capture her loveliness. She did not _walk_ in Beauty, she _was_ Beauty, radiance in tangible form and he could not tear his eyes away. With undisguised admiration he beheld her. Never could he remember her looking more exquisite, never could he remember being more entranced. Dressed in a gown of blush tarlatan adorned with a skirt of ivory lace tulle, its dipping neckline exposing a tantalizing amount of alabaster décolletage, she looked every bit a flower fresh in the bloom of spring.

She felt his presence before she saw him. A thousand heated pricks across her skin blending, swelling into a rushing galvanism; a spark generated by him alone that plucked at her every nerve with the skill of a virtuoso on the strings. At last the rest of their group came into view, the four of them were paired off in conversation, each dressed identically to the other male guests; she bit back a laugh at the truth behind Annabelle's earlier comment. William was listening to Reginald explain something, nodding every now and again, while Sir John and Erik were talking a few feet away; the latter reclining against the ship's railing languidly with an elegance unique to him. Unsurprisingly he was the only one of the four to have chosen a waistcoat of ebony, its darkness enhancing his swart masculinity.

Christine tried to stem the turbulent mixture of emotions from bubbling up within her stomach, twisting and turning the poor organ every way. She had always found him incredibly attractive in evening dress, more so than usual. There was just _something_ about the well-tailored black cloth that enhanced his regality, something which highlighted both his debonair sophistication and dangerous allure. So taken was she with the mesmerizing display that she failed to notice his gaze until she was barely a few meters away.

Her breath caught under his rapacious scrutiny and she froze like a helpless doe in a forest clearing. Deftly he pushed away from the railing and approached, his eyes blazing fire and ice. It was all Christine could do to await the inevitable meeting. _Annabelle, John, her chaperon, all other souls on board_ , none mattered. Time bent, the seconds stretching into forever, as everything other than _him_ ceased to be. Like a ship sailing towards the mighty Charybdis, she waited, knowing she would be consumed but wholly resigned to her fate.

From another plane of existence Christine looked on as he bowed his head curtly and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. Warmth spread up her arm, the sensation of both touch and lips burning acutely in spite of both sets of gloves. "I had forgotten I purchased that for you." she heard him murmur softly. Under the pull of his voice, she came crashing back into reality and body.

Timidly she averted her gaze and wet her lips, aware that her face was the same shade as her gown; her mouth rivalled a desert, the flaming in her face furthering the allusion.

" _I..._ D-Do you like it?" Christine managed meekly, unsure of where or who she was anymore, unsure of anything but _him_.

"Your beauty transcends all imagination." His voice came husky, on a delicious whisper meant for her ears alone. "Forgive me for not telling you immediately, I'm afraid I was much too transfixed for coherent thought."

 _Much too transfixed for coherent thought_... A fitting statement to be sure. Their eyes remained locked in another of the bizarre, little impasses that had come to define their every meeting over the past four days. His barely-contained restraint was nearly visible, conjuring up the image of a fierce tiger, the thin metal bars of a cage the only thing separating him from the crowd.

 _His stare!_ Holy Father, the intensity with which he stared would surely crush her to bits! Still she could not look away.

Though he said nothing his eyes spoke volumes. Within the flickering blue flames she saw unbridled passion, deep longing, and delightfully wicked sin enmeshed in a salacious dance, imploring her to capitulate to her darkest urges, to those which now filled her mind in scandalous detail. Lost as she was in sensation, Christine could almost feel his lips on hers, feel his hand tangling in her hair, feel the soft exhale against her ear _and the pressing fullness within her as he..._

"Ah, I believe congratulations are in order, Sir John! I will admit I was surprised as anybody when it was your yacht that crossed the finish first. Do not think that I am not glad for you, I am quite happy at your fortune! And, Monsieur Leroux," Mrs Gardiner looked Erik over with a sniff, "I heard the victory today was in no small part owing to your skills as a navigator. It is a pleasure to see you too and in a more _appropriate_ state of dress." Her comment was made in reference to the navigator's choice of sailing attire and for the first time ever Christine was grateful for cousin Josephine's interruption; it provided a needed distraction from her shameful, vulgar thoughts. Both she and Annabelle had to bite their cheeks to keep from giggling, recalling how scandalized their chaperon had been by the sight of a gentleman wearing naught but shirtsleeves in public.

Even though Annabelle hadn't agreed with her cousin's opinion that such informality was bordering on 'pornographic', she too seemed mildly stunned by the change from earlier. She eyed his gentlemanly appearance uncertainly, as if she couldn't imagine that the polished man before her was the same wild spirit who had sailed into the harbor perched on the bowsprit like a blackguard, the sea a most eager mistress writhing beneath him.

Deciding space to be the wisest course of action at present, Christine brooked no protest when she was whisked off by her chaperon to make the usual round of dull introductions. Internally she groaned and tugged at her hair upon the fifth or sixth of these meetings, but she knew this to be necessity if she and Erik were to maintain their illusion of amiable distance. Smiling sweetly, she played her expected role, accepting dances and engaging in supervised pleasantries, all while zealously awaiting the return to London and privacy.

* * *

 **A/N: There really was a ball held by the Prince of Wales in honor of his in-laws at Cowes in 1873 aboard the HMS _Ariadne_. It was actually at this fateful event that Winston Churchill's parents first met and became infatuated with one another, so there is plenty of historical information there. Pretty cool if you ask me! **

**I did have to take some artistic license as the actual ball occurred technically _after_ the R.Y.S. regatta at Cowes on the 12th of August, which placed it in the middle of another Royal yacht club regatta: that of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club which was also held on the Isle of Wight. This didn't work with my timeline so I bumped it up to coincide with the final night of the R.Y.S. regatta.**

 **Additionally the ball was a late afternoon affair, from 3:30-7:30. But obviously that didn't work with the final race and would have given our dear characters precious little time to get ready. Interestingly I read that certain anecdotes of the time embellished and said the ball was 'set under stars' to romanticize it more. _In fact_ it was most unusual to have a ball so early in the day because it necessitated full evening dress, which normally only came into play _after_ 6 pm. So my ball will be from 6:30-10:30 instead. ;)**


	45. A Ball Most Royal Pt II

**And now for part two, which might as well be called, 'I know it's a ball and YES there is actual dancing in this chapter' lol.**

 **Of course, there is more E/C loveliness as promised but it's not there as blatant, outright affection. I already explained the reasons for this, but I thought it would be the perfect time for some introspection. I also hope some of the aforementioned musing answers some of the questions about their feelings for one another and how they reached the current point.**

 **I would have posted much sooner but my handsome, yellow man (my Labrador) injured his back foot pretty badly this past Tuesday night. Thankfully nothing is broken or torn! (Took a pricey vet visit to figure that out). And since he's an active hunting retriever he isn't content playing the couch potato, so I've had to play dog-nurse and constantly supervise him the past couple of days. Needless to say I've been rather distracted and for that I apologize.  
**

 **Now on with the show!**

* * *

Maintaining a casual separation from the dancing since it began, Erik noticed several curious glances but cared not how his unsociable aloofness was perceived; he refused to pretend that he wanted to be here. The evening thus far had been one hellish irritation that only magnified the temptation he had felt since coming here, he and Christine simultaneously close and agonizingly far apart. At last he was able to interact with her having concluded his obligation at Cowes, and yet it was more restricted than an outing chaperoned by Mrs Gardiner, the stringent rules and regulations of the ballroom surpassing those of the military. Not that he gave a damn about such ridiculous institutions but he did not wish for his flippancy to embarrass her. He would abide by the constrains of propriety for Christine even if it killed him.

Sir John took a refreshing sip of champagne. There were a great many well-bred, doe-eyed beauties in attendance and having had his fill of dancing he elected to rejoin Erik, glad for the reprieve. Women he loved, dancing he enjoyed, but the tiresome conversation that accompanied the two was nothing less than loathsome. The gentlemen strutted about wooing and schmoozing encased in an imitative veneer of genteel manners, pretending they were so far above the animals and savages they subjugated. Both hunted for sustenance, for one it was meat and for the other flesh and fortune. At least animals did not rely on such deception, they did not deny their true nature. The ladies were no better; prancing, flirting, coyly glancing though a curtain of thick, dark lashes, all while scheming like harpies to entrap any unwary man with means. Their mothers and elder sisters pedalled them like wares, selling only to the highest bidder. A daughter for a dukedom, a maiden for a marquessate, a virgin for a viscounty; they lined up like sacrificial lambs eagerly awaiting their impending slaughter and the title it bestowed. Sickening, all of it.

Never was he more appreciative of the comparative bliss to be found in Erik's stony silence.

He indulged in the quietude for several minutes, letting it surround and calm his senses. It didn't bother him that his presence went unremarked, he hadn't expected it to; Erik was engrossed in something else like a cat with string. John observed the masked man with interest, truly a fascinating subject of study, the latter's eyes were locked onto the dance floor. He noted every clenched fist, every glare and every scowl, the burning blue gaze never leaving the radiant brunette in their acquaintance. Suddenly he was struck with the force of his friend's feelings.

A silly notion to be sure! Naturally he _knew_ the man loved Christine, that much was evident. However it was not 'til now that he realized the true profundity of such an emotion: love and still somehow _more_. As with all things Erik, even an extraordinary feeling eclipsed its boundaries evolving into something transcendental. _Daunting_ _, terrifying, sublime_ yet so very beautiful to behold. The words tumbled out before he knew he had spoken.

"Is it not difficult to watch her gaily dance in the arms of another?"

" _What?_ " Erik snapped, the question catching him unaware. He knew he hadn't been alone for a while but his preoccupation made this easy to ignore; he had not anticipated conversation.

"I apologize, I should not have said anything, but I know it must be rather hard for you."

It was a woeful misstatement. No man liked to share what he considered his and Erik was no ordinary man, his emotions ran much deeper. Simple ownership was not enough for him. When he had something he desired he possessed every inch, _every last particle_ ; it was one of the many reasons he was so dangerous. John was surprised that any of these heels were allowed within a meter of Christine.

Briefly Erik's moody blue eyes met the solicitor's tranquil grey ones before snapping back to his quarry. "Spare me your damn pity, Norton!" he spat, "It is taking every bit of meager control I possess not to break the hands of each fool who touches her, I have none left to keep myself from snapping your neck."

"First hanging me with my own tongue and then snapping my neck? Surely that is excessive even for you, old boy."

"Luckily if done correctly one generally follows the other; it should not prove an imposition in the least. Please continue your idiotic banter, I am rather in need of an outlet for my frustration."

John laughed, he was one of two people that were unfazed by Erik's death threats. The daroga was accustomed to them but the solicitor was the only one who regarded them as consistently amusing. Oddly, this lightened Erik's mood despite his reluctance to find anything enjoyable about the night.

"Your evening must have proven a grave disappointment if you've sought the company of monster over maiden. Were they terribly ugly, insufferably dull, or perhaps both?"

"On the contrary, it's been too long since I've seen such a fine collection of young ladies. I have either grown old or spent too much time in your association. A pretty face and tinkling laugh no longer holds the appeal it once did, none of them were enough to inspire any real interest. Besides their mothers circle like vultures over carrion, it grows wearisome listening to them prattle endlessly about virtues and accomplishments; as if any man cares about his wife's skill at cross-stitching or water colors."

"Careful, Norton, it would appear you are in imminent danger of becoming a curmudgeon."

There was a rather rude snort, " _Indeed._ At least I am not yet as much of a crank as you, my friend. Then I will _truly_ be unfit for pleasant company. On that subject, why don't you just dance with her instead of tormenting yourself?"

"I am only allowed two dances."

"And? While I am flattered by your desire for my companionship, I don't see the problem." John was aware of this 'rule' but ignorant as to what it had to do with the situation. Perhaps it could simply be put down to his friend's strangeness?

"You're mistaken. I would rather pursue _companionship_ from the sharks and eels..." He scoffed, his tone turning somber, "If I dance with Christine, her fate will be sealed, I will not allow another to even gaze upon her. _That_ is why I must endure this torture." His reply was delivered with an unnerving finality that made the blood run cold. John believed him with unwavering conviction. He only hoped that Erik's passion would not consume everything in its path before all was said and done.

Not so far away, Christine took a hiatus from the ball, from the whirling waltzes and choppy schottisches. The space had grown uncomfortably warm with the overabundance of bodies, prompting her to seek the cool, sea breeze. From her place at the railing she hazarded another glance and was met with sinking disappointment. His focus was elsewhere as it had been since the start of the ball, barring their very first encounter. She had agreed to dance after dance with various gentlemen, even promising future dances to a few, always praying _he_ would see her, praying he would intervene, but she was to have no such luck. Now the evening was nearly at a close and the likelihood was growing fainter. Moisture stung at her eyes, the night of her dreams rapidly dissolving into smoke. She blinked the tears away, chastising herself for such girlish selfishness. _Of course_ he wanted to dance, but for a man like Erik who had spent most of his life in solitude, withdrawal was the mechanism by which he coped; it was safer for the both of them this way.

"It all seems rather superfluous, doesn't it?"

Christine gasped in surprise, glancing over to see a pretty dark-haired girl around her own age; the girl smiled kindly, "Pardon me, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jennie Jerome. I did not mean to give you a start." Her accent was strange, neither English nor European. American, perhaps.

"Christine de Chagny. Don't worry, there was no harm done, I'm afraid you caught me in a daydream is all." She returned the smile sheepishly. "Pray, but what does, seem superfluous?"

"This whole affair. I _do_ love balls but they can quickly become bothersome. Especially when you only desire to spend the evening with a gentleman who has caught your interest." Jennie sighed, "Forgive my candidness, only I recognized that look in your eye. I thought to commiserate before I must endure the next quadrille. Is he in attendance, the one whom you fancy?"

"Yes. Is yours—the gentleman, _I meant_." Christine realized the unintentional brashness in her statement and hoped she didn't offend. The girl was genuine and rather likable, an improvement from the snobbish vapidness she had witnessed thus far.

"Yes, I've only just met him tonight but Randolph is the most fascinating man I've come across and I believe he shares my interest." Jennie looked over her shoulder wistfully, noticing that the current song was ending, "Oh, but what my mamma would think if she heard me speaking in such a way! I must leave before she grows suspicious. It was nice to have met you, Christine. I hope everything works out between you and your beau."

"I am glad to have met you as well, Jennie. I wish you luck with Randolph!" The two girls exchanged grins as they parted ways.

Midway through the next song Christine decided to return to the ball, believing herself to be pledged for the remaining dances. She watched the couples gliding elegantly like birds on the wing and sighed solemnly, wishing she was amongst them. Tonight had been a letdown and now she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed; she contemplated feigning a headache or some other malady, having no further desire to dance. As the quadrille came to a lively end, she searched for her card with weary resignation but was unable to find it. _Hadn't she just had it with her?_ Sleepiness gave way to panic, knowing the reprimand she would receive if her chaperon found out.

"Looking for this, my dear?"

Christine whirled around to see the very person she had dreamt of all evening. He was holding something between two long, gloved fingers, wearing his usual expression of cool arrogance.

"My dance card! How did you know—" Her eyes widened and narrowed in quick succession, it was both comical and endearing. " _It was you._ "

"If you look inside you will find that you are promised for the next two dances." He smirked, offering her the booklet.

"You could have simply _asked_ me, you know." she grumbled, feigning annoyance even as her heart sang.

His lip twitched haughtily, "I could have, _yes_ , but what would be gained from such a banal gesture?"

"Only propriety."

He scowled and she beamed, bemused by the playful banter between them. " _Very well._ Since you're so concerned, _may_ I have this dance and the next, mademoiselle?"

" _You may_ , monsieur." Christine dipped in a curtsy, accepting his proffered hand like she had two years earlier. That frightening and wonderful night where he first revealed himself as a man, as a Phantom, as a _suitor_. He was every bit as dark and threatening as he had been that night, feeding off of her naïvete, his masculinity suffocating in its enormity. A sheltered innocent of sixteen, she knew not what it meant then, but as a _woman_... as a woman she grasped every insinuation in his movements, the implications within his mercurial gaze, the thick wall of desire he emanated and still she trusted him blindly. She would follow her dark angel wherever he led, be it in the seductive throes of a waltz or into the bowels of the earth. Abduction was not necessary, not when Persephone was so dazzlingly captivated by the thrill darkness promised.

Lanner's, "Dornbacher" arose in a titillating swell, a great wave of music washing over the deck of the _Ariadne_ , drenching the couples in its delightful airiness. The feel of her small hand in his, the gentle ridges of her back beneath his palm, the lovely, porcelain face so close to his own, were permanently seared into memory. His heart had been branded eons ago and now his very soul carried her mark, so long as Christine walked the earth he could not be without her. And have her he would, have her or be damned for all eternity. Not much longer could he stand to wait, for Hades was growing restless. Soon he would take Persephone as his own, _soon_ the dark lord would bind the pretty little songbird to him forevermore.

No words passed between them for the duration of the song. Words were clichéd, ugly little things, tools in the roll of infatuated youths who believed they could capture and tame love with a pen stroke. Delicate flowers, pulsating rivers, celestial bodies, these were material things—they could be _smelled, touched, seen, heard, tasted_ —but love was not confined to the same mediocre existence. Love was the ephemeral wind that rustled petals and rippled water, a living, breathing force always in motion, too transitory to be caught.

One moment it was the pull of the tides and the next it was the shroud of lovers, as merciless and powerful as death, sometimes every bit as destructive. It cared not about the pathetic trivialities by which humanity defined itself: wealth, station, looks, age, health, nationality, none were of consequence. It chose who it did with an ancient wisdom beyond mortal comprehension. Wars were waged, kingdoms were burned, brothers were turned against brothers, friends murdered friends, and all in the eternal name of that which could only be detected by a flawed and illogical organ. Yet for love's chosen victims it was as real as respired air and circulated blood. Eventually it became these things, invading every cell and becoming every part of those whom it possessed. Love oozed from each glance, smile, and gesture like a contagion. But for two spirits so perfectly compatible love was a fortified, unbreakable bond, untouchable even by death. Mountains could crumble into dust, stars could extinguish, seas could dry up, life could be obliterated, and still love— _their love_ —would remain.

And remain it did through: violence, tragedy, betrayal, misery, bitterness, marriage, separation, reunion, and loss. Like a river forced to alter its path around a stone, it flowed undeterred until it joined with another body, its soulmate. Such a love was theirs. Queerly, distance often favored lovers in the same way that temporary blindness humbled once the sight returned. As the song went, ' _absence makes the heart grow fonder_ ', and in the case of the pair gliding about the floor in a fluid, elegant ländler this bit of sage wisdom proved most germane.

Looking up at her dark partner, Christine could scarcely believe the moment was real. Was it not but mere months ago that she believed her Angel dead? Was it not half a year ago that she was living in Paris with her husband, swaddled in a fine cashmere blanket of security and gentle affection, guilt eating at her insides like disease? She knew this damnation of the mind was no more than she deserved for her duplicity, for proving to be no different than the rest of the horrid people who had shunned him. This suffering—the prison of nightmares and remorse—she would gladly endure however much it weakened her because she knew that the alternative, that his _hatred_ , would certainly kill her. And hate her he would, were he there, of that she was positive. How could he not?

But fate brought her Angel, her Maestro, _her Phantom_ back to her one cool April night in London. He was alive! Holy Father, she couldn't recall the last time she had been so grateful. Upon awakening in his fashionable town house and seeing the comfortable life he had created for himself, she was overjoyed and determined to make whatever amends she could. They could never be what they once were, he would never accept her. Maybe in time she could win his friendship. His cold, polite manner spoke otherwise and Christine came to believe their reunion as another level of her perdition. In short-order she convinced herself that he did not loathe her but instead regarded her with indifference. At least there was passion in hatred, in ambivalence there was only numb nothingness. Yes, it was merited but even so it threatened to destroy her. And yet, by another miraculous twist, she had been given not just a second, but a _third_ chance.

So she leapt without thinking.

No longer could she let anything hold her back, there would be no other chances. Besides, Raoul had given her his blessing on his death bed. Somehow, whether in the haze of delirium or during marriage, he had _known_ her heart and told her to follow it. She had. Over rolling hills and wending streams she _had_ and it led her straight to Erik, her life and love. He had been her late husband's last gift to her: _happiness._ _Her Erik_.

Moments became small eternities in his arms as the music floated around them in a heavenly cloud. Within the warmth of Erik's embrace she pondered over the existence of destiny and within his embrace she felt assured of its actuality.

What had he ever done to earn such a prize? _He_ : a murder, extortionist, thief, and harrier! He had bullied, threatened, coerced, and seduced his pretty little Angel; driven mad with jealousy and grief he had very nearly crushed her sweet, fragile soul. He had come into the world a monster. As a child he had been confronted with this ugly reality and as he grew older, more jaded, Erik had accepted and taken pride in such a title.

 _Yes_ , he was a monster, _a beast_ , with the savagery and blood-lust to prove it. His humanity had been all but completely gone, its weakness beaten, stomped, and wrung out of him. He was glad for it too. Monsters needn't be plagued by dirty, feeble emotions. Erik had returned to Paris his fall from grace complete, not even the well-meaning Antoinette could save him as she had done all those years ago. There would be no redemption for the Angel of Death. He would not seek it. The hour was far too late for such foolishly idealistic delusions. Or, _he believed it to be_ until the day a little, curly-haired ragamuffin wandered into the opera's chapel. Oh, he was still every bit as deplorable as he had been but he swore to himself the sad, Swedish orphan would never come to know that side of him.

How well that had paid off! In the end his word was no better than the rest of his thrice-damned hide. Curiously, in spite of his grievous past sins he did not truly feel like a soulless gargoyle until he had broken this final promise. It was at that instant, in the depths of his lair, that he realized he was beyond a shadow of absolution. And what had she done? Had she stabbed his accursed heart from behind, caved in his skull, slit his throat to save her noble prince from death?

No. She had kissed him!

She had done what no others, even his own mother, could bring themselves to do. His Angel, his beloved, _his Christine_! And just like that the monster was slain, the Phantom was dead, leaving poor, wretched Erik behind as raw and defenseless as a newborn babe. Hapless, weak Erik had begged her to go, knowing she belonged in the light with her handsome fiancé. So he had let them sail away together, feeling his heart shatter into a million silvery shards alongside his mirrors. _It had been the honorable thing to do_ , he told himself.

Unsurprisingly the revelation brought no comfort. Then, he hadn't expected it to. He knew there would never be another chance for them so instead he had relocated and started a new life, building himself up into the man she had glimpsed inside of him, that she _believed_ he could be. It was the _barest minimum_ he could do to atone for his crimes and all of it was done in her memory. He would live in the light, become a respectable man as recompense for her forgiveness, _for that kiss_. The task was painstakingly torturous and Erik despised almost every, single second. But soon he won the acceptance he sought, soon he forced himself to tolerate the blasted social aspects. There were times when he longed to disappear, to crawl back into comfortable darkness, but in those black intervals he thought of _her_. _She_ gave him strength to endure. And now...

Since youth Erik had sneered at the concept of a higher power. But now with her in his arms, he had never been closer to acknowledging the existence of a greater force. She should detest him, she should have fled once again, yet she didn't. On the contrary, Christine had come to _love_ him. Never could he have imagined such a thing would come to pass outside of the sanctity of dreams. He could never hope to repay such a fate so long as he lived, not with gold, not with diamonds, not with good deeds. Forever he would be indebted and he found he minded not at all.

 _Good God_ , he did not mind in the slightest!

They barely shifted, transitioning fluidly to the next song as Lumbye's "Hesperus" began, both of them luxuriating in the leisurely melody and utterly complacent. There was only peace to be had entangled within love's embrace. All thoughts outside of each other were halted at the gates of this serene reverie. Nothing could disturb the duo, nothing could shatter the spell that bound them together.

Still he felt a small, fluttering exhale against his shoulder. "Does something trouble you, my darling one?" Erik studied her, hoping nothing was amiss. It would be a terrible shame to break this idyllic cocoon they had together created. Perhaps she was fatigued... he could not bear it if she was cross with him, _not at present_ , though she had every right to be after his avoidance.

A grin spread over her lips, delicate as pomegranate blossoms. "No. _Well_ , only that I wish we didn't have to say good-night so soon. Now that we're allowed to touch..." Christine glanced Mrs Gardiner's flinty mien out of her periphery, "I don't want to stop." Startled by the wantonness of her statement a rosy blush crept from her cheeks down to her collarbones.

Erik appeared similarly stunned by her admission but quickly recovered. "I'm afraid it has never been more torturous to hold you in my arms; so close and still unable to have you, _all_ of you." His eyes bored into hers, as rich as sapphires and clear as aquamarines, something unidentifiable swimming in their depths alongside the flagrant yearning. She was struck with the impression that he was on the cusp of disclosing some momentous secret; her breath hitched involuntarily. "I feel you should be warned. When we arrive in London there will be no force on earth strong enough to tear me away again. _Ever again._ I could not possibly bear to be parted from you, Christine, now or _forever_ , if you would have me."

 _Fool! Idiot! Imbecile! Hopeless moron!_ His internal rebukes came in swift sequence.

What on earth had compelled him to divulge such a thing?! He had absolutely no intention of doing so but somehow it had just... _slipped out._ Erik felt like an utter simpleton, he did not make such careless mistakes! Well, apparently that was not the case, _apparently_ he was no better than a common dunce. _Genius indeed_ , he thought bitterly. Perhaps it had been the combined thrall of music and her intoxicating nearness that had loosened his tongue. It mattered not either way, one look revealed his error had not passed unnoticed. His only available recourse was to confess.

Christine's eyes went huge with shock. Undoubtedly she had misheard. There was _no_ way. There _couldn't_ be! No, she _had_ to have been mistaken. He _definitely_ had not just proposed or hinted at such. Her imagination was much too overactive. Such a thing was far too good to be true! Up until barely a week ago he had shunned her like a leper. For him to change so radically when they had spent no time together was improbable if not impossible. Wasn't it? _Of course it is_ , her mind railed at her. She was just a silly, dozy girl who failed to separate fantasy and reality. And yet some infinitesimal niggling hidden amidst skepticism told her otherwise. Which instinct was right? She _had_ to know.

"Erik..."

He shushed her gently, his gaze validating the unthinkable. Her lungs seized and her feet lost sensation. Had he not been leading her, supporting her, she would have collapsed. " _Yes_ ," Erik affirmed, "I have every intention of binding we two but not here, _not this night._ You deserve so much more than a hasty, base overture, my Angel, _so much more_. When the time comes, as it soon will, I will do my best to make a worthy effort. I do not seek your answer until then, please don't be alarmed. Let us speak no more of it tonight."

She wanted to do just that, _by God_ , she did! But despite his light tone, his words brooked no disobedience. Shaken and alight with giddiness Christine heeded his request, trying mightily to ignore the thoughts buzzing within her skull like a swarm of angry bees. They spent the remainder of the ball simply talking and laughing. It was rather nice. Other than the suggestive exchange whilst dancing and a fleeting brush of her hand on his arm, there was no hint of indecency; her chaperon suspected nothing. Tomorrow their lives would return to normal and in the meantime there was sweet contentment to be had in each others company.

Naturally when the time came the two did not want to say good-night. Parting with Erik was always difficult, but buoyed by his earlier revelations, she found it bearable. _Soon_ , he had told her, _soon_ _they would never again be separated._ And with that delightful prospect in mind, Christine was able to sweep through the door to the cottage for the last night arm-in-arm with Annabelle, positively bursting to swap stories into the wee hours of the morning.

For the first time in a long while, Erik could claim complete exhaustion. He had never needed much sleep and mainly did so for refreshment; as such he could count the number of instances where he had been in genuine _need_ of it on one hand. Between that afternoon's gruelling race and tonight's ball, he found himself looking forward to sinking into bed. Besides, he had a great wealth of information circulating about his mind and sought the clarity and perspective lent by dreams. However this was not to be. The butler was waiting for him in the foyer.

"Two telegrams, sir, come from London and marked urgent."

The resultant reaction was one of suspect levity and exasperation. Erik was helpless but to relish in such an outstanding example of irony; he was told fairly consistently that he had a dark sense of humor. Of all the nights to be confronted with grave matters, it was the one on which he planned to sleep. Receiving the two communiqués with a brusque directive that he was not to be further disturbed, he walked into what passed for a small study and poured himself a generous snifter of brandy.

With a shake of his head and a rabid chuckle he summoned a quote from Coverdale's Bible from memory. He found it to be ostensibly apropos.

"Eueso ye wicked haue no peace, saieth my God." Erik mumbled as he began to read.

* * *

 **Whoops! Cliffhanger!**

 **Uh-oh, did Erik let something slip? There you have it, an imminent proposal! _See,_ I'm not just stringing you guys along! ;) **

**Hope you all enjoyed the ball and thought the introspection as fitting as I did.**

 **I wonder what those telegrams are all about?  
**

 **A/N: Music used was Joseph Lanner's "Dornbacher" ländler and Hans Christian Lumbye's "Hesperus" waltz.  
**

 **The quote at the end is from where the phrase, "No rest for the wicked" originates and is from the Book of Isaiah (57:21) in the Coverdale Bible; Myles Coverdale is credited with the first complete printed translation of the Bible into English in 1535.**

 **Rate and Review, pretty please? ;)  
**


	46. Midnight Train to London

**Want to find out about those mysterious telegrams? Wait no longer!**

 **Finally this chapter gets us back to some E/C fluff (which has been a looong time coming) and deserves the rating. It's also the longest chapter I've ever posted.  
**

* * *

The train car rattled along the tracks in a steady, monotonous melody of clacking and puffing indifferent to the darkness. It chugged forward like a great, black draught horse, steam billowing from its stack and sweat rolling off its riveted haunches, mindful only of its end destination. Illuminated by a bawdy full moon it made a formidable sight.

Within one of the sleeping compartments (the very last train car) a single, dim light flickered, a sign of life in an otherwise slumbering world. The persistent noise was just one of a multitude of reasons its current inhabitant found himself unable to rest. Strange that scant hours ago he had been quite thrilled by the prospect of sleep, now it was the furthest thing from consideration. Oh well, the matter was not a pressing one, he had gone much longer without on numerous occasions. More often than not, really.

Sighing, Erik ran a hand through his already tousled hair and reexamined the two pieces of paper; it was not the first, second, third, or even tenth time he had done so. No longer crisp or devoid of creases and with their ink fading in spots, the pair mirrored the careworn appearance of he who held them.

Two telegrams in a single night, _imagine!_ And not even spurred by a crisis. Although the initial surprise was easy to look past, the content (of one in particular) was not. As for its brother, the included news was nearly enough to cancel out the negativity of the first. _Nearly_.

M E LEROUX 14 SHOOTERS HILL COWES =

MET WITH CARTWRIGHT ABOUT POINCARE AND LEARNED MUCH MUST SPEAK POSTHASTE UPON  
YOUR RETURN EXPECT YOU SUNDAY AT LATEST FOR TEA CANNOT STRESS URGENCY ENOUGH

= N KHAN

He rolled his eyes. _Only_ the daroga would tack on an invitation for tea at the end of a telegram whilst simultaneously stressing the importance of the situation. Erik scoffed, were the infernal Persian here he would most assuredly have a few _choice_ _st_ words for him, none of them fit for polite company.

Rationality dictated that his friend wouldn't have sent a critical message if it hadn't been merited. After all, Nadir Khan was extremely well-acquainted with his temper and had learnt over the years to keep his provocation at a minimum.

But that did not mean Erik need be happy about the disturbance!

With the holiday at Cowes and the approaching final concert he had all but forgotten about the task he had delegated to the daroga, _forgotten_ about figures stalking from the shadows plotting to upend the present contentment of his life; but as with all instances of happiness he had experienced, the sting of reality eventually intruded and destroyed. Would he ever get a reprieve? Had he not endured enough of the world's cruelty to earn the freedom to live as a normal man?

 _Apparently not_ , he thought bitterly.

Monsters deserved not freedom, monsters deserved not joy. Even with the tentative acceptance of society, Fate still saw through the thin, rubberized veneer of humanity. From her the monster could not hide, not behind mask nor under cloak. She would always find and punish him for daring to befoul the kingdom of men; her perfect kingdom of men wallowing in a mire of sin with their complete faces. Internal distortions were permissible, it was the external ones that incited chaos; vices and follies were a part of man's imperfect nature—those endearing, humanizing flaws—physical deformations, however, were a blight against God, the very manifestation of horrid sin.

Always Fate would see him hunted like the beast he was.

His hand inadvertently rose to confront the curse that had doomed him from his first breath. He was mildly confounded when, rather than mottled and twisted flesh, smooth, faultless rubber greeted him. In the pandemonium of the evening he had forgotten to remove the realistic visage.

A stupid gaffe on his part. The rubber had never been _comfortable_ in the strictest sense and had a tendency to irritate the skin (the reason it was reserved for public appearances), but the warm, salty air of Cowes had wreaked absolute havoc; his face was raw and chaffed, bright red and peeling, rendering his deformity more horrific than usual. _As if such a thing were possible_ , his mind added. Determining it best to remove the blasted thing before it caused more damage, Erik retrieved the solvent from his trunk and did just that, prizing it off with a grunt. He chanced a glimpse in the looking glass and quickly whirled away in disgust, returning to his trunk for another mask.

Now the question was: leather or silk? Silk was the obvious choice, though he quite liked the dashing starkness of the white leather and the mystery it inspired. The memory of his pranks and mischief as the Opera Ghost brought a small smile to his lips. Sometimes he missed the fantastical tales crafted by the chorus girls, stage hands, and ballet rats.

So superstitious, the lot of them; such pitifully small-minded people. Never had they stopped and questioned if their spectre was anything but supernatural and he had only been too happy to indulge their ignorant beliefs. Never had he intended on doing otherwise, not when it provided amusement and income. Christine had shaken all of that up. In the end the truth had been outed, so crazed with jealousy and rage was he that nothing had been done to stop it: the unavoidable crumbling of his carefully-constructed empire. Thus the last of the Populaire's secrets had been laid bare (s _acrebleu!)_ its resident spirit was only a man. A hideous, gnarled gargoyle but still a man in the strictest sense. Oh, how they screamed and swooned! Ultimately, he had paid them back in full and vanished into mist before the mob located him. Erik slipped the ebony silk onto his face, ironically a reproduction of the one he had worn that ghastly night.

Not for the first time he longed to steal away deep into the countryside with Christine and dismiss the rest of the world entirely. Surely Fate could grant him that small concession? The longer he ruminated, the more appealing the idea became. After all, there _were_ arrangements in place courtesy of Sir John's trip to the Continent; it would prove no great difficulty to acquire an estate and start life anew. _Yes_ , a new life far removed from the bowing and scraping, simpering members of society; a new life with his lovely, little wife by his side, their days spent in music and nights in passion.

Irritated by daydreams more befitting a guileless young girl Erik scowled and crumpled the paper, tossing it carelessly onto the floor and picking up its sibling. Funnily enough, it was not the 'urgency' of the daroga's missive that landed him on the dratted night train to London, but instead good news; news he had been anticipating for the better part of the summer. A strange, foreign giddiness swept over him in spite of his pall as he read.

M E LEROUX 5 CHESTER SQ LONDON =

ORDER READY WILL SAIL FOR LONDON TOMORROW MEET AT CLAIRIDGES NOON SATURDAY TO CONCLUDE BUSINESS

= M J F CARTIER

Several curses echoed in the small chamber, swallowed up by the symphony of churning steam, clattering wheels, and grinding steel. He ran a finger over the word 'redirected' at the top of the note. The telegram was marked the day before last, meaning Cartier was already in London and expecting him tomorrow. Why hadn't he received it on the day which it was sent? Only two people had been provided with the address of his lodgings in Cowes: Elsie and the daroga. And for this _very_ reason.

A great help it had been, _indeed_. The task of forwarding the missive would not have been a difficult one and yet here he was, enduring a bloody train ride through the night and chasing the morning.

Why had he thought to bother? People were nothing if not unreliable. How many had proven otherwise? _Too few; nil or less_ , a voice in his head answered.

Erik snorted; he would not have minded were the two reversed and the Persian's telegram had been the one delayed. Anger arose in a hot, heavy tide; _another_ shot at happiness had almost passed him by! Had it arrived an hour later he might not have been able to secure tickets before morning, which would have meant...

"Damn that fool maid!"

Enraged, he slammed his fists on the small folding wooden tray that posed as a desk. Surprisingly the impact didn't tear it from the wall. Over the subsequent rattle of protest he nearly missed the jangling of the doorknob.

The knob continued to jiggle until either curiosity or vexation got the better of him, he couldn't say which. What on earth could that damn woman want? To hell with civility, Mrs Gardiner was about to make the acquaintance of a Phantom. Erik yanked open the door to reveal, not a sour biddy, but a stunned and rather scantily-clad Christine, her fist raised in the midst of knocking, her dark eyes seeming to comprise half her face, so wide were they. His brow automatically sailed upwards at the bemusing doorway spectacle; she lowered her hand bashfully.

"I uh ... _Erik!_ " Color swamped her pale face, she looked as though she had stumbled upon some great scandal. Maybe that description was not so very inaccurate; if she remained— _and dressed like that, no less_ —a scandalous display was a likely outcome. "Sorry, _that is,_ I thought this was Annabelle's compartment." Christine dropped her gaze then, studying the floor with rapt interest, her eyes faithfully tracing every whorl, scuff, and grain of the wood even as it disappeared under the soft rug.

"Obviously you were mistaken."

 _Obviously._

"I..." She swallowed and composed herself, still refusing to look at him, "Y-Yes, I see that."

"Perhaps you should have knocked first?" he offered, "It is, _after all,_ impolite to invade one's private chambers in the dead of night and _so_ ..." Erik's eyes roamed brashly over her form without apology, the longing within undisguised; his lip quirked at one corner, "... _informally_ dressed. _My, my_ , Christine, what _is_ a gentleman to think?" The rich timbre of his voice robbed her of both breath and thought, the insinuation stressed in every syllable contradictory to his appearance; it was not a gentleman who currently stood there appraising her.

 _A wolf in gentleman's travelling clothes, more likely,_ she mused.

"But pardon me, I've no room to pass judgment seeing as I've yet to invite you in. Allow me to rectify this rude oversight. Please," He moved aside with a grand sweeping gesture, " _enter._ " A normally innocuous word became a single, hazardous entreaty, one that was followed with the unspoken warning: _at your own peril._ Or, it might as well have been.

 _Of course_ she knew she shouldn't! Instinct practically shouted at her to flee. _It's a ruse, you'll be ensnared,_ reason cautioned, _he will not let you escape; never will you escape._ Christine scrutinized his face and the unconcealed hunger written on every visible part. With that bandit mask he looked quite the blackguard: a ruiner of virtue, a shameless Lothario. _Never will you escape._ Dazed, she looked on as one stocking-clad foot rose and stepped over the threshold, its mate following shortly thereafter with only the slightest inkling of hesitation. His eyes darkened with perverse delectation at the symbolism of the action.

Once, long ago, they had sang of crossing a threshold. Lyrics would soon be made literal.

For the second time that night it was as if her consciousness had been cleaved from her body. Logic was muted by a stronger force. The string wrapped tightly round her heart had yanked her forward regardless of rationale or propriety, obeying its master; obeying _him_ : the one for whom it beat. _Come to me, Angel._ Christine now stood within his room, if but barely. Escape was still a possibility if she wished it. Did she? _You should_ , her good sense feebly protested. Even so she took yet another defiant step into his quarters— _into the wolf's den_ —effectively sealing her fate.

Christine nervously wound a lock of hair about her finger, intimidated by the sensuality that seemed to radiate from him, that _always_ radiated from him. It was immoral, _unnatural_ , and ... _and_ she wanted nothing more than to strip away her clothing and swathe herself in it.

 _What a wicked girl she was!_ A wicked and wayward wretch.

Eternal hell-fire awaited her, of that she was positive, but with _him_ in such close proximity even damnation was trivial. What was this sway he held over her? Could there be a word for it, delicious and shameful as it was? No. She was convinced there was no such name (at least in the civilized world), a subject too taboo to grace paper or rend air, for if it did its very existence would violate all laws of man and nature. If thought or uttered it would rain certain destruction, a second fall from Eden.

It was unequivocal blasphemy, this rapture in perdition, but she was unfazed. How unsettling a prospect, that one who once believed in angels and diligently said her prayers each night would crave a saccharine sampling of forbidden fruit. _The thrill on her tongue of stolen sweets._

Intimidated, _yes_ , but not frightened. Never frightened; not anymore. Cowed, perhaps? Yes, that was it; like a mortal in the presence of God.

His gaze was still trained on her, _searing_ , charring every inch of flesh it fell upon with a fury greater than any fire. At any moment he would gobble her up like a dreadful beast from one of the dark stories so beloved in her childhood. She languished in the temporary quietude, lingering impatiently for sin, for the covetous confessions and lascivious admissions that were sure to come; it was little wonder then that his next words caught her out.

"Why are you here, Christine?"

A fair question comprised by five simple words.

Why was—or more importantly— _how_ did she come to be here? Everything had happened so quickly following the ball that it felt like ages rather than hours had passed. The evening was a distant, hazy memory. Christine recalled that she and Annabelle were in the midst of readying for bed, enthusiastically gossiping, when they heard an insistent pounding upon the front door; the second such instance that day. They had both thought it very unusual and said as much. _  
_

After the firm dressing-down the staff had received over the earlier fiasco with the invitations, one of the maids was quick to answer. Whomever this visitor was, they were quickly and quietly ushered into the parlor and joined by Mrs Gardiner. It was at this point that a mutual decision to listen in was made. Girlhood retrospection resurfaced as the two of them crowded at the top of the stairs in a furious attempt to eavesdrop. Oftentimes she and Meg had done the same. However, in this instance all efforts were in vain, they could discern nothing. The walls of the cottage were evidently thicker than those of the Populaire had been.

"The _one_ time she isn't screeching like a peacock who's been trodden on." came the aggravated mutter next to her. There was no chance for further banter because the parlor door swung open. They hurried back to their room, narrowly avoiding detection.

"That was close! I thought she might have spotted us for a moment." Christine breathed, her back resting on the door. Cured of their taste for naughtiness the pair resumed their nightly ablutions, agreeing to uncover the matter tomorrow.

Not five minutes later, their chaperon was at their door ordering them to don their travelling clothes with haste. Apparently Erik had been summoned to back to London that very night and Josephine and William were joining him, meaning they too must come along.

" _What?_ "

Gradually her shock ebbed as she returned to the present, "As I've already told you I was looking for Annabelle but I'll leave if you find my presence distasteful." Though unwilling to admit it, his query had rankled her pride. It was the same manner of address one might use to chasten a babe for an intrusion.

"You'll do no such thing!" he snapped, his eyes glowing orange like molten iron _; a_ _possessive brand on her soul_.

Something large and heavy clamped around her forearm with the force of a steel trap. She gasped involuntarily, startled. "I apologize, Christine. My words were poorly chosen." The grip on her arm slackened and eventually retracted, "I meant to ask _how_ you are here. Wasn't your chaperon's compartment supposed to abut mine?"

Really he was heedless as to why it even mattered. It was strictly irrelevant at present. He was _damn_ glad for whatever brought about this change in plans. Normally there was no night train from the seaside to London but a couple of sleeper cars had been attached for the occasion at Cowes. The party of five very nearly took up an entire car amongst themselves, with Mrs Gardiner the acting barrier between the sexes.

That is, she _should_ have been.

"Y-Yes! I mean _it was_ but she claimed the curtains were not thick enough to keep out the moonlight. You know she is prone to those 'head pains' as she calls them so I switched with her; Annabelle's cabin was empty and I thought to check William's room but this is actually your bunk and—" She clutched at the thin linen skirt of her chemise with a deep breath, only now coming to her senses, "I-I really should find her."

"Why are you in such dire need of Miss Harland's company?" His tone was low, dangerous as it was seductive, laced with the conceit of a fox recognizing it had gained the advantage over a hapless hare.

In the instant it took to blink he was standing nearer her. "Is there something the matter? Surely, I might be of equal service considering you are already here and the hour grows ever later."

"NO ... _thank you_." The intermingling of nerves and furtive, unforeseen desire came together in an explosive declaration before she remembered her manners. Inwardly she berated herself for the lapse in emotional restraint, but what else could be expected under the ferocity of that azure gaze? Cheeks burning, she felt every bit a guilty child caught sneaking biscuits and frantically tried to allay further humiliation.

"I mean, well _you see_... O-Only I was readying for bed and realized I needed help undoing the laces of my corset; I should find her, I d-don't want to inconvenience you by keeping you awake." Christine was digging herself farther and farther into a hole, drowning in the unforgiving blue depths of his irises.

Each of them grasped futility of her flight at the same time. She knew it. _He_ knew it.

 _By God_ , did he know, know and savor every bit. The thought made him harden instantly.

One swift movement and he had cut-off her only exit, his large body obstructing the doorway and smile eerily predatory. In that moment, she would not have been surprised to see horrid, gnashing fangs in place of straight, white teeth. She crossed her arms about her chest suddenly conscientious of modesty, her brain drudging up the tale of the girl who went into the woods to visit her grandmother. Unlike that story, there would be no intrepid, heroic huntsman to save her. In _her_ narrative the fearsome wolf that sought to devour her and the huntsman were one in the same: enemy and savior.

"Fortunately you are interrupting nothing, I find sleep hard to obtain whilst travelling."

The snare had been sprung swiftly; there was no turning back. She backed up to the wall of the compartment in a halfhearted effort to slip past. Her intention obvious, he extended an arm and easily blocked her path.

He was _so_ close, there was the barest brush of his lips at the shell of her ear; she shuddered. "Turn around."

Strange how his soft-spoken commands were more threatening, compelling more acquiescence than those raving ones made in the fit of temper.

Powerless to the contrary, she complied, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. Were he to touch her bare skin now, she was certain she would evaporate into nothingness. Immediately his skillful fingers set to work, undoing Dorothy's wickedly tight knots with discomfiting ease. Not once did he stumble, the entirety of his endeavor was carried out with an alarmingly fluidity. It was unnatural that one should possess such talented digits and if she hadn't known otherwise, Christine would have sworn he had performed the task thousands of times before. There was a soft thud as the corset fell away. _Don Juan triumphant, indeed._

" _There,_ " His breath washed over her neck in a whisper-soft wave, "it appears Annabelle's help was wholly unnecessary after all."

Slowly she turned to face him, kicking away the restrictive garment now sitting on the floor. There was not even a hairs breadth between them. "You are trembling, Christine. You must be cold wearing so _little_." The straining ache in his voice was conspicuous, tangible as iron or stone or flesh; _God save her._

"A b-bit, I suppose." she admitted, well-aware that her shivering had nothing to do with being chilled.

A hand drifted to her face, his thumb lightly skimming her lips. "Absolutely lovely..." Several agonizing seconds ticked by before he withdrew, leaving a smouldering imprint behind.

"Here." he whispered hoarsely, producing a cloak from nowhere and drawing it about her shoulders. The satin lining tickled pleasantly however the thick wool trapped her body's warmth, reflecting its overwhelming intensity back unto her. So terribly hot! It was stifling, dizzying, like being cooked alive. Surely this was Icarus' final sensation before plummeting to his death in the sun's fiery maw, this suffocating prison of heat.

"Do you require _further_ aid undressing?"

It was no slip of the tongue, the time for pretense had come and gone. This was deadly territory. His palms lay against the wall on either side of her head. The trap was hemming in around her, getting ever smaller and forcing him ever closer. She was shaking, a quavering leaf in a gale.

"I-I can m-manage the rest, t-thank you. We should both go to bed, it's l-late." Too late did she ken the double entendre and glimmering smugness of his countenance. Too late did she acknowledge his brow touching her forehead, the parting of her lips, the fluttering of her eyelids, the upwards tilt of her face, the wordless presumption of what she wished for.

" _Bed? If you insist._ " he echoed quietly before bringing his mouth down upon hers.

Faint, gentle, tentative pressure: just a taste. Over before it started. Its tenderness briefly astonished her. Not so much a _kiss_ , it was more akin to the sweet fluttering of a butterfly's wings, the light caress evoking a tremor of chin.

" _Christine..._ " Her name rushed forth on a pleading exhale, "I urgently need you." His hand drew along her cheek, its texture reminiscent of linen: smooth but work-roughened and just soft enough. Sensual, masculine hands.

" _W-We s-shouldn't..._ " The shaky, stammering whisper was no resolute demand. Any persuasiveness it might have held was nullified by her expectant lips and racing heartbeat.

Erik chuckled, an uncharacteristically rough bark. "Hardly a convincing petition." He pulled away just enough to stare into her eyes, leaving her to founder within his. Dilated pupils begirded by circlets of woad dragged her in and downward until she was falling, diving deeper into an endless well.

"Do you know how you've tormented me? Every hour brings more suffering. Near, apart... distance has no impact. Whether in my arms or half a world away, my agony is selfsame. I can think of nothing else, waking or sleeping; you haunt what little soul I have. _Always_ you are there, calling, beckoning, tempting the very fabric of my resolve. I see you in everything: in garden, sea, and sky, as if nature was created in your image. The white roses mimic the silken purity of your skin, the peonies are your lips, the woody soil in which they grow stares at me from your eyes, the breeze is your every gentle breath, the waves curl like your hair: wild and chaotic. You are the siren to my Odysseus. Our fates are interlocked, for I will perish if I cannot have you, Christine, and you will likewise wither if I let you go; this you know to be the truth. And presently, _mon sirène_ , I fear your wiles have sliced through my restraints."

She jerked his head down to hers in the only response she could give. Grappling, pulling him into a reciprocal kiss, into the fathoms of yearning. He met her with such fervor that their teeth collided. Tongue and teeth and lips clashed, thrown together in a dizzying brawl of ardor, vying for supremacy in the haze of carnality. Erik cradled her face, keeping her steady as he relearned every bit of her mouth. No impediments currently lay between them, _th_ _is_ was what had plagued both of their thoughts for the better part of a week. Christine cherished the fact, sucking his bottom lip and tracing his tongue with hers. It was copacetic, this freedom of intimacy. A husky groan and he was crushing her to the wall, his every part rigid, unrelenting, and foreboding. There was no denying where this path would lead; both welcomed it with relief. The point of no return had passed the instant she stepped into his room.

With a deft flick of fingers the lantern was snuffed out leaving the moon the only witness.

She broke away with an awed gasp, "How did you—"

"A Phantom never loses his touch, my dear." Another deep, singeing kiss and the parlor trick was forgotten.

His hand then moved to engulf her breast. _Hard._ There would be no sweet seduction or reverent love-making on this night. Not when this claustrophobic need threatened to crumple them into nothing. He kneaded her almost painfully, leaving a wake of bruising kisses and stinging bites along her neck and collarbone. The tops of his fingers skirted the neckline of her chemise, pausing before the vulgar ripping of material pierced the air. Its origin required no speculation. Christine threw a surreal glance at her partially-exposed chest, the silvery moonlight casting the tops of her breasts in an ethereal luminescence, a tinge of trepidation written in her features. His expression twisted into something feral, _inhuman_. Would any piece of her remain when he was finished?

Another tug on the stressed fabric and the garment split to her navel. His mouth fastened onto her nipple, hot and seeking. Laving the bud with furious attention, tongue scribbling tributes to his desire, _to her_. Christine's pulse thundered in her ears, her body quaking and fingers nestled in his hair holding his head in place, encouraging his luscious debauchery. Her hips moved enticingly of their own volition, twisting, reaching shamelessly for something _more_.

Erik's knuckles skated up her inner-thigh before suddenly, possessively cupping her mound, answering her tacit signals. Her body was to him an open book, he knew its every page and line by rote. She very nearly screamed as he traced her womanly folds before being silenced by a deep, plundering kiss. Mercifully the openness of her drawers afforded ample access to her treasures, already slick with arousal. Wet for him, _because_ of him. This heavenly creature desired him as much as he did her; it was unreal. He couldn't withstand much more; his urge to have her was fast becoming as vital as breathing or a heartbeat.

" _So willing, mon dieu..._ " he groaned against her neck before adhering his lips to the skin, drinking in the vibrations of her subsequent moan. Would she ever cease to thoroughly unravel him?

Moments from the past four days circled about him forming a jeering, heckling faceless crowd. Her twofold confrontation, on the ferry then at the cottages—he should have taken her then, punished her insolence; those quick, furtive peeks through the curtains as he worked throughout the night—he knew that she had watched him, yes; that hand on his arm after dinner and all the cravings it had incited; the chaste peck on the cheek before the race; then the ball ( _the damn ball!_ ) and the blasted dress that displayed her snowy bosom; and now this... Christine, dressed in next to nothing, on the wall, his body covering hers. The invisible tormentors sneered, pointing, hurling insults. God, she was positively sopping wet. His endurance snapped.

" _How long_ , Christine?" Less a question, more an accusation. "Tell me how long you've dreamt of this!" He leaned against her, balancing himself whilst fumbling (that being the operative word) with his trousers before tugging at them; the sharp plinks of the buttons scattering about the floor little testaments to his impatience.

"Erik, I—" _Holy Father, she could feel every inch of his body pressed to hers!_ She could feel the brazen evidence of his need at her hip. _Unrepentant._ _Indecent. Scandalous._ Hardness intersecting bone.

" _How long?!_ " His tone grew incensed then, onerous; his fingers explored, probed her secrets restlessly, each ministration a tiny torture in of itself.

" _Tell me!_ " he ordered.

"S-Since the first n-night..." She felt his short, staccato breaths at her jawline, sending tingling anticipation trickling down to her core. He dropped kisses along her ear and, _Lord_ , the mechanisms of speech were forgotten.

"Go on."

A lone finger dipped inside of her, _burrowing_ , _questing_. For what she knew not. Then he found it, a heretofore uncharted region of her most private anatomy. An abrupt pinch of teeth at her earlobe acknowledged her throaty, beseeching moan.

"We argu— _oh,_ " she sucked in a stilted breath, "and I was g-going to m-make am-mends." Talking was already a struggle but was quickly becoming next to impossible.

" _How?_ " Words dripped honey-sweet from his lips, as his thumb encircled the apex of her sex. Teasing, taunting with fluctuating range of pressures as his finger continued its assault on that newly-discovered part of her, that terrible, wonderful spot. Her legs began to sway and buckle, knees knocking about like trees in a storm. And what a storm it was. A tempest of emotion—of passion, want, and necessity—crashing, raging upon itself deep within her. All-consuming, that nameless tumult churning and gathering, gaining strength by the second, so close to being unleashed.

"S-Seduce y-yo—" The rest of her cry was lost within the cavern of his mouth.

Her time was nigh; there was no turning back. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

With a snarl he scooped her up, cupping her bottom firmly and pinning her between his body and the wall; her legs curled about his waist unprompted. _This was it._ Erik gave her an infinitesimal respite just enough to inhale before a single, savage thrust united them. Instantly she clenched around him, the eagre rushing forth with astonishing power at last overwhelming the dam. It broke over her, leaving her ruined, fragmented into dozens of tiny pieces. He hissed through his teeth, his body going rigid, only just managing to delay his own undoing. She heard whispers, unfamiliar oaths issue from him in a steady stream of breath. His voice, chafed with lust, harsh with need, could inject musical beauty into even the most profane.

This made their third union. The first had been a clumsy result of unexpressed attraction; the second had been a slow, exploratory duet; but this was hasty, brutal, animalistic, driven solely by the most base urges. No clothes had been shed in their desperation to be joined; there were no murmurs of love or devotion, only hunger: implicit and mutual.

He filled her completely, perfectly so. There was not a tailor on earth who could replicate such an impeccable fit as Erik inside of her. They were created solely for one another.

Every barbaric thrust tore her asunder and then pieced her together again. A wave breaking on the shore and being dragged back to rejoin the sea, only to repeat the process again in a boundless cycle. He plunged into her again and again, his rhythm matching her pants and moans. Christine arched violently, silently pleading for him to drive deeper. Erik obliged immediately with a guttural growl, covering her mouth with his own, as he impaled her so forcefully that she swore he had reached her womb. His tongue sought hers, cutting off her scream.

"You must be quieter, love." Erik gasped, a wicked sliver of a smile tugging at his lips. He withdrew almost completely, leaving her maddeningly empty. She whimpered, squirming with eagerness, _needing_ him. Oh, she could have throttled him then! If she was too loud it was his fault alone. All thoughts of physical harm were promptly abandoned when his hips surged forward again, piercing her soul with a grinding expletive. Christine's walls shook, a warning tremor. They were rapidly approaching the end of this amorous circuit.

His pounding became short, rapid, disordered. He tore his mouth away from hers to rain kisses on her throat. One hand left the taut globe of her bottom to squeeze her breast before groping at her face and hooking his thumb into the corner of her mouth. One thrust, then a second and she was lost, biting down as she tumbled over the void.

Five more strokes and he joined her; his teeth clamping upon the cord of her neck to stifle his own apogee, holding her tightly as he spilled deep within her. She tipped his face up, kissing him with the soft earnestness of adoration. Erik walked the handful of steps to the bed and set her on the small mattress, turning away to make himself decent.

"You'll be the death of me." he rasped facing her once more. Grinning crookedly, he swept the dark, sweaty locks off his forehead. She eyed him lethargically, utterly spent and still short of breath; content to bask in the fog of afterglow until she noticed the dark trail shining on his skin. Thick and crimson: _blood_.

"Oh no, your hand!" Christine seized it and turned it over in diligent inspection, finally locating the wound: a smooth cut above the knuckle of his left thumb. An exact match for her front teeth, her eyes widened in horror. "It's bleeding! I'm _so_ sorry, Erik!" she cried. Had her concern not been so innocently heartfelt, he would have laughed at its ridiculousness. Hadn't she seen his back and wrists? This wasn't anything to fret over, it was barely a scratch. If she had said nothing he likely would never have noticed.

"A small price in lieu of the consequences had we been discovered; you're far too vocal, my dear. Besides, I take it as rather an homage to my talents." Erik smirked diabolically, dodging the blow aimed at his arm. He removed a small case from his trunk and sat next to her, his injured digit wrapped in a handkerchief.

"What are you doing?"

"I've no intention of asking my housekeeper to reattach the buttons of my trouser fly." he responded tersely.

"You sew?"

Large fingers deftly threaded a needle the first try, their grace never ceasing to amaze. His shoulders rose in a nonchalant shrug, "Somewhat. Decently enough for minor repairs at least." She regarded him skeptically, doubting he ever did anything 'decently enough'; mediocrity was not exactly his forte.

When his task was complete he folded the garment and held out a hand, earning him a confused cock of her head.

"Your chemise."

"What of it?"

"Remove it and I will mend it as well."

"R-Remove it? But then I will be..."

"Exposed." he finished huskily.

Christine gulped and nodded. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like he had just asked her to disrobe for inspection before an audience. Erik rolled his eyes at the show of prudery when minutes ago she had been writhing and begging for him in a manner that would make the most-seasoned courtesan blush.

"Do not fret, my dear, this lustful beast is sated for the moment. Wrap yourself in my cloak if you are concerned with modesty or you may have my shirt if you prefer." There was a touch of astringency in his tone and she felt foolish for her bashfulness; the last thing she wanted was to slight him.

"No, the cloak will do fine." she replied in a tiny voice.

She spun, facing away as she shimmied out of the tattered shift. His body reacted instantly to the glimpse of tantalizingly creamy skin; the curve of her back as she bent, revealing little divots of spine and protrusion of shoulder blades, showcasing dainty musculature and gracious curves, she resembled an odalisque. Erik decided then that there were few sights more enchantingly arousing, more flawlessly sculpted than a woman's back. Neither marble nor oil could capture a fraction of its splendor. Yet he knew that their time was dwindling and fought to keep this rekindled desire at bay.

"Come now, unless you'd prefer to do it, but I haven't bandages enough for a disaster of that magnitude."

"I am not _that_ incompetent!" Christine asserted indignantly, whirling around and glaring at him from the inky shroud of his cloak; swaddled as she was it lent her the appearance of a disembodied head. He gave a derisive snort and she shied the chemise at his head with a huff.

"You were thirteen and recovering from a particularly nasty head cold." Erik recounted, stitching methodically, "After a week abed, you begged Antoinette for a diversion. Still unfit to dance, you were sent to aid one of the seamstresses, a Madame Bouchard if I recall correctly. She set you to work on a simple hem using a machine, claiming the device enabled any 'ninny' to sew. Your screams reached the fourth cellar. Tell me, Christine, how _does_ one manage to sew four fingers to a skirt? Certainly neither Madame had witnessed anything similar."

This time she chucked his waistcoat at him with a grumble.

"Careful," he said, not looking up, "you'll cause me to stick myself. I believe you've maimed my hands enough for one night."

"And neither instance would be my fault."

He shot her a wry glance, "No, I suppose not. However, do you think it wise to play with fire? I can think of a great _many_ ways to avenge my poor, damaged appendages."

"Nothing too sinister, I hope."

Erik laughed lightly, the mellifluous inflection having returned to his voice. His eyes met hers, brimming with roguery and her breath stuck. "Your hope is misplaced. The things I've in mind are so depraved, _so unseemly_ that the darkest creatures in hell would weep."

At this they both shared a chuckle, though Christine kept a slightly wary eye on him for the remainder of his undertaking, which passed in smooth conversation. Several times she felt the need to check if she was dreaming. Never did she imagine she might one day be sitting beside the almighty Phantom of the Opera, unclothed but for his unmentionables, watching him do something so _normal_ as sewing. Once she would have considered the idea of this deadly, dangerous man performing a domestic chore totally mad. But witnessing it now, it was, _well_ , attractive.

Again she thought of his earlier slip of the tongue. It hadn't struck her just how much she wanted to share in the ultimate sacrament with him, to share with him one love, one lifetime till death parted them. Forever would she love, cherish, and obey her Angel, her maestro, her friend and lover, _her Erik_. All he need do was ask.


End file.
